Life is Strange 2: The Bravest Wolf in the World
by RavishinglyRood
Summary: Spinning out of the Redemption ending, Sean Diaz's life in prison feels like drowning. It strains his relationship with his brother Daniel. But Sean discovers he has a power too-he can travel back in time through his sketches. And he can change the past. He has an opportunity to fix what happened the day his dad died. But will there be a cost to messing with the past?
1. Episode One: Walls - Chapter One

_Once upon a time in a wild, wild world there were two wolf brothers living in their home lair with their papa wolf._

_They lived in peace . . . until hunters took their dad away._

_The wolf brothers wandered for days and nights, learning to live on their own for the first time._

_That's when the big brother learned that the little one was not an ordinary wolf . . . but a super wolf!_

_They decided to head south to the distant land of their ancestors . . . but the journey was long and dangerous._

_Still, the wolf brothers made new friends along the way._

_But danger always followed them._

_And ran afoul a cult of coyotes._

_And reunited with their mother wolf._

_And were attacked by more hunters._

_But the whole time, the big brother worried about what kind of wolf the little one would be._

_In the end, escaping to the land of their ancestors meant asking the little wolf to maul the hunters, to rip out their throats. And the big brother could not ask him to do something so cruel._

_So the big brother let himself be taken._

_And the hunters locked him in a cage, where all day, the big brother paced back and forth._

_Though he knew he did the right thing, being trapped ate at him because freedom is like oxygen to a wolf._

_So one day, the big brother chewed open his own paws._

_The big brother lived, and like before, he thinks of that day so long ago, when he was happy with his brother and their papa in their den._

_And he would give anything to go back, to stop the hunters from taking his dad away._

**Episode One – Walls**

_Chapter One_

**Soundtrack - Intro: "Train Song" **

**cover by Feist and Ben Gibbard**

_Washington State Penitentiary _

_December 2022_

_Five Years After the Incidents at the Border_

The guard's hand is firm on Sean Diaz's arm. It doesn't endure him to the other prisoners, but the guards mostly like him. Even though he is in for killing a cop, and about a half-dozen other crimes, they all feel sorry for him. He is twenty-two years old, but they think of him as "that poor kid."

The door to the visiting room swings open, and usually the visits with his brother (and sometimes grandparents) are the only thing Sean has to look forward to in his sad life. In the drudgery of prison, visiting day is like a Christmas that comes every two weeks. But today, Sean cannot lift his head. He cannot look his brother in the eye. Maybe if he doesn't look at Daniel, Daniel won't look at him.

But his shame is obvious. It's covered in the thick, white bandages that are wrapped around his wrists. He cut himself so deeply that the bandage on his right arm is wrapped almost to the wolf tattoo a friend drew on his forearm a lifetime ago.

He shuffles into the visiting room where other prisoners are meeting with wives and distant children. And he hears his brother's voice call, "Hey, Sean!" It's gotten noticeably deeper, just in the past two weeks, but it has the same excitement as always. Deep down, Sean knows some of that is a show for his sake. _You sacrificed everything for me, so I have to be happy so you know I appreciate it._ But the love in it is always genuine, and, even from the darkness he's in now, it lifts his heart.

"Hey, _enano_," Sean says as he reaches the table. Daniel hugs him so tight that bones pop. And usually Sean hugs him back just as hard. But today, he barely has the strength to lift his arms. So he just buries his face in his brother's neck—the fifteen-year-old is almost as tall as him—and sighs.

The guards don't like it if the prisoners make contact with their families for too long. Sean feels Daniel let go, and they fall into the chairs at a small, metal table that's bolted to the floor. A long quiet settles between them, Sean staring at the bandages. Though he doesn't look up, he knows Daniel is staring at them too.

"What's wrong?" Daniel asks.

"It's nothing," Sean says.

"I got real worried when you didn't call this week."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you."

"You want to tell me about the bandages?"

"I'd rather you tell me about how your Twitch channel is going or what you're doing now that soccer is over."

"Now that soccer is over, I mostly stream _Fortnite_ on Twitch and have 200 followers, but half of those are kids I go to school with. Now, tell me about the bandages."

"They're nothing."

"Bullshit," Daniel says. "Sean, we don't lie to each other. Please don't lie to me about this."

Sean sets his face in his hands, obscuring his one good eye. It's not to hold back tears. Though he is sad, it is the kind of sadness that has settled into his bones. It's not the kind you cry about. It's the kind you carry, like a weight that you cannot set down. It's a baby thought, but there's something about not looking at Daniel that makes it feel like Daniel can't see him when he says, "I didn't call this week because I am in solitary on suicide watch."

"Sean, you didn't," Daniel says.

"I did. Guilty as charged." He holds up his hands, to play it off like a criminal surrendering. He thinks it's a pretty good joke, but Daniel doesn't laugh.

Instead, Daniel just stares. Stiff-lipped. He looks years older than he is, and Sean swears he sees wrinkles under the kid's eyes. Sometimes Sean forgets that Daniel went through as much shit as he did.

"Sean, how could you do that?"

"It's prison. They teach you how to make a shiv on day one. Most people use them on someone else, but it turns out, it's a lot better to just use it on yourself because it's easier to get your target to stay still."

"Stop joking. How could you try to take your own life? That's a mortal sin."

Sean rolls his eye. His brother lives with their grandmother who is super-Christian, and it grates at him that Daniel has started going to church. Especially after everything that happened with Lisbeth. "You know I don't buy into the God thing." He didn't believe before, but he believes less now that "God" made life get so shitty.

"I know you don't," Daniel says, "but you don't have to believe in God or Hell to see it's a sin. What do you think killing yourself would do the people who love you? I lost Dad, our life in Seattle—did you even think what losing you would do to me?"

And Sean looks at him, directly with his one good eye, and says coldly, "I'm sorry that I made one choice one time where I wasn't thinking of you."

As soon as he says it, Sean wishes he could take the words back. Because they strike Daniel like a slap. The boy is still sitting there, but it's like his skeleton collapses, like his bones can't hold up his shoulders anymore. His head falls, his shaggy hair hiding his face. And he trembles, just slightly, just enough for Sean to know his little brother is holding in tears.

"Hey, _enano_, I didn't mean that," Sean says. "That was stupid of me."

For a long time, Daniel doesn't say anything. Then, quietly, his voice cracking: "I'm sorry."

"For what, bro? You didn't cut my wrists open." Sean tries to make it sound like a joke.

"Yes I did. Because I'm the reason you're here."

"That isn't true, Daniel," Sean says. "I'm here because of my choices and my decisions. And because of a deeply broken justice system. None of that has anything to do with what you did. Come on, man, please don't beat yourself up. Please don't worry about me. I'm fine."

"No you're not!" Daniel shouts. A tremor goes through the room. The windows vibrate. Tables shake. Sean's chair moves, just half an inch. Guards, prisoners, family members—they look around, thinking they have just felt a small earthquake. But Sean knows different. There's a fire in Daniel's eyes, one that he helped his brother learn to control. But one that still flares up from time to time. Daniel takes a breath, steadies himself. His words come out measured, but angry. "You tried to kill yourself, you dumbass. You are not fine."

Sean drums his fingers on the table. For six years, his life has been defined by protecting his little brother. Even when it meant doing something stupid. "I am okay, Daniel."

"You are not supposed to fucking lie to me, Sean."

* * *

_i__t's so many miles and so long since i've met you_

_don't even know what i'll find when i get to you_


	2. Episode One: Walls - Chapter Two

As Daniel steps into the parking lot of the prison, his grandmother, Claire, is waiting for him, sitting in her car. She and his grandfather Stephen are pretty awesome. Sure, they can be kind of strict, but they took him in following all of the shit that happened after his dad died. And they are willing to drive him the three hours to visit Sean every other weekend. And they understand it's important for the Diaz brothers to have one-on-one time; they have to be pretty awesome to drive so far just to sit in a parking lot.

But today, Daniel slams the passenger door as he sits down.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" Claire asks.

Daniel shrugs. Then sniffles. And then he's crying, feeling embarrassed because he's a fifteen-year-old boy, and he is supposed to be tough. But he puts so much energy into appearing happy when he talks to his brother. The reality is that his life is pretty good, but it isn't _happy_, not with Sean in jail. And today all of the walls they built out of bullshit started crumbling, so he cries like a stupid little baby while his grandmother rubs his back.

When he finally gets control of himself, he tells her, "Sean tried to kill himself."

His grandmother covers her mouth. "Is he okay?"

"He's alive. And they have him on suicide watch. But he isn't okay. He hasn't been for a while."

"I worry about him too. If you want to talk about it, I'll listen."

Daniel sets his head against the window. It's the first day of December, and the glass is cold against his forehead. "I think you should start driving, Grandma. I'm worried I'll do something stupid if we stay here."

He hears her start to scold him, to tell him not to do whatever he's thinking of. But she stops herself. His grandmother is a pretty good woman, but she has made a lot of mistakes. She pushed her only daughter, Sean and Daniel's mom, away by being too strict, too demanding. So she bites her tongue, starts the car, and trusts that Daniel will talk when he's ready.

And when they are about an hour south of the prison, Daniel says, "I am thinking about using my powers to break Sean out of jail."

Again, she stops herself from saying the first, second, and even the third thing she wants to. So it takes a long moment for her to say, "Do you think Sean would want that?"

"I think if I asked him, he would say no. But if he were telling the one-hundred percent truth, he would say he thinks things would be better if we had crossed the border into Mexico."

Daniel's grandmother nods. "I see why you think that. But what would happen to you if you broke Sean out of jail? Do you think Sean would want that for you?"

"No," Daniel sighs. "He wouldn't want me to be a criminal. But that's the whole problem. It's not about what's best for me. It's about what's best for him."

"Sean loves you, Daniel-"

"I know."

"—and sometimes loving someone means putting their needs ahead of your own. No matter how difficult it is."

"But why is it good for Sean to be self_less_ but it's okay for me to be self_ish_? Why is it okay for me to let him take all of the blame just so I can stay out of trouble?"

"It's what Sean wanted."

"But that's my point! Sean should think about what is good for him, not just me. Is it really so good to be selfless all the time? I mean, Mom made some selfish decisions, and things turned out pretty okay for her."

Grandma Claire bites her lip. "Well, I think your mother is a different debate."

"Yeah, because she is my actual parent. Sean isn't my dad. He's my brother. He was a kid, barely older than me, when all of that stuff went down. Why is he holding himself to a higher standard than my actual mom?"

They turn onto a narrow, single-lane state highway that winds through an Oregon forest. A semi truck a few cars ahead of them can't handle the turns, slowing everything down to a crawl. Grandma Claire doesn't exactly have a led foot, but she pumps the brakes with each flashing taillight ahead of her. "I understand what you are saying," she says, once she has settled into the flow of traffic. "You feel your brother has given everything away until there is nothing left. And you would rather have your brother than whatever remains when he has nothing left to give."

"Pretty much, yeah," Daniel says.

The car lurches forward. The semi up ahead has gotten the hang of the road, and the speed of traffic picks up. "I think one of the hardest things to do is to respect someone else's choices, especially when you don't approve of them," Grandma Claire says. "I still do not understand how your mom could leave you two boys or why she cut contact with us. But I know the more I tried to convince her she was wrong, the more it pushed her away. And with her being back in our lives, I've realized that her being here is more important than all those things I don't get about her. I understand your questions about Sean's choices. But he made them because he wanted to give you the best life he could. The best way to honor that is to live the best life you can, so his sacrifices weren't for nothing."

"I get that, it's just—"

Daniel's grandmother shouts. Up ahead, the semi truck has suddenly hit its brakes. The trailer slides back and forth across the road, whipping a loose chain caught in a typhoon. There are two cars between it and Grandma's car, and they are all about to slam into each other in a mangled mess of blood, metal, and glass.

Without thinking, Daniel holds out his hands. With the powers his older brother helped him hone when they were on the run, he catches the semi with his mind. It's heavy. Really heavy. But he lifts it off the ground, just a few inches, trying to stop it.

A vein in his forehead throbs, and he picks up the two cars as well. These he lifts higher, maybe a foot off the ground. He presses his feet into the floorboard, straining, trying to stop everything. The seatbelt tightens against his chest as his grandmother slams the brakes. Tires squeal. He smells burning rubber.

Grandma Claire gets the car stopped. And a long, thin bead of sweat winds its way from Daniel's brow and across his cheek. The other two cars, the semi—they're all hovering in the air. Only a few inches, but enough that their passengers are looking around, shocked and confused.

But they're stopped. And safe.

Daniels sets them down, a little too roughly. He falls back in the seat; his t-shirt clings to his damp body beneath his sweatshirt.

"Are you okay?" his grandma asks.

"Yeah. I'm good," he says. "We need to check and make sure the people in the cars and truck are okay."

Everyone is okay. Unfortunately, the way Daniel set the truck down means it's blocking the entire road. And the rough landing blew out a couple of tires, so they have to wait for police and a tow truck.

Everyone is chattering about it. _How are we not dead? Did it feel like you were flying too? Did God swoop down and pick up my car? _

It's about forty minutes before police and emergency crews arrive. They are just starting to get the mess cleaned when the news van shows up.

"Shit," Daniel mutters as the camera emerges. He tries really, really hard not to swear in front of his grandmother, but this is bad. This is fucking bad.

"Breathe, Daniel," she says, setting her hand on his shoulder. "Everyone was scared. People will just assume their imaginations were running wild. No one is going to think a fifteen-year-old boy did this with his mind."

"Grandma, I appreciate what you are trying to say," Daniel says, turning quickly as the camera pans over to him, "but the entire story of my life is that The Worst Thing That Can Possibly Happen is totally the thing that happens."


	3. Episode One: Walls - Chapter Three

So, prison sucks.

But solitary confinement _really_ sucks.

Sean isn't sure how long he has to be on suicide watch, but he wonders if anyone realizes the irony in putting him in a place where the only thing he can do is think about killing himself. Usually, he shares a cell with a pretty chill guy named Troy who was convicted on a marijuana charge before it was legalized in the state. But in solitary, all he has is a bed and a toilet and that aching sadness in his bones.

He isn't allowed to have anything with him. No pencils for drawing because he might stab himself. Not even crayons because he might swallow them. Since he always does what he's told, one of the guards felt sorry enough to bring _some_ things from Sean's cell: a photo of him and Daniel, a sketch Sean did (right before he attempted suicide, but the guard didn't know that), and a battered copy of Kurt Vonnegut's _Slaughterhouse-Five_. Sean has read the book fifty times, and poor Billy Pilgrim never gains control over what happens to him. He can visit the past but never change it. He can't even change his future.

So it goes.

With no clock, the only thing that marks time is his meals, served to him on a cold, metal tray. Sean stares at the picture of him and Daniel, taken the day he turned eighteen and was transferred from juvie to a real adult prison. Mostly, he does what he has done every day for six years:

He imagines going back to the day that the police shot his father.

He imagines changing everything. There's so many ways to do it. He could not shove Brett, the bully that started it all. He could tackle his dad out of the way of the bullet. He could insist his father get down on the ground. He could take the bullet himself.

But he can't change the past. He knows this always. But every once in a while, he _realizes_ it. It _hits_ him that he can't go back to that old life where he was just a kid worried about kid things like track and college and whether the girl he likes will touch him over his jeans, maybe.

And so he cries.

People cry more in prison than you'd think. But in solitary, there's no one there to judge him, so he catches up on it. Sobs into the hard mass of cloth that passes as his pillow because not only does he miss his father, but he worries that maybe Claire is right, maybe there is a Heaven. And maybe Dad is looking down on him in prison and feeling so very, very ashamed.

This isn't what Dad wanted for him. Esteban Diaz didn't raise his son to be a criminal. Yet that is exactly what Esteban Diaz's older son is.

# # #

It has only been a day since he saw Daniel, but each minute feels like an hour in solitary, each hour feels like a year. The sketch the guards brought him, Sean made just before he slit his wrists open. It's a drawing of his cell, Troy sleeping on his bed at the side of the tiny concrete box they share. As he was drawing it, Sean knew that he was going to kill himself. During his weekly call to Daniel that Wednesday, he made a point to tell his little brother he loved him. And that Daniel should be good. It was a goodbye without saying goodbye, so Sean didn't have to leave a suicide note.

Drawing always brought Sean a sense of peace, no matter how crazy life was getting. It helped him through his mom leaving. It helped him through his and Daniel's time on the run. And he really wanted his last moments to be peaceful, so he drew the only thing in front of him: his prison cell.

Sitting on the hard cot, he studies the image now, what was supposed to be the last thing he ever saw. And he keeps thinking that he messed up. He knows most people who don't complete suicide never attempt again, but all he can think is how he should have cut deeper. He could have gone further up his arm. He could have done it when Troy was out of the cell so nobody would have found him until he was already dead. The depth of his sadness is so great that the only thing he can see is that he should go back and kill himself better.

Then, suddenly, the image moves.

At first, Sean figures he's going insane. It happens, especially when you're isolated. Sometimes you start to see things. Sometimes you just break. And Sean Diaz has seen so much shit that it was only a matter of time before something broke. But the image moves again, like a flicker. And the more he stares at it, the more it seems like the pencil lines are alive, like they are adding details to themselves.

Sean closes his eyes, thinking he must finally be going crazy.

And when he opens his eyes, he is sitting in his cell. His actual cell. On the small shelf with his things, including a single change of socks and underwear, are his meager collection of books and what passes for art supplies. Troy is asleep on the other side of the room with his back to him, and Sean is sitting on his own cot, his sketchpad in his lap.

This is exactly how things looked a few days ago, just before he tried to take his own life.

Sean reaches down under his mattress, and he feels something thin and plastic: the shiv he made from a toothbrush, that he used to cut open his wrists.

Then he blinks again, and he his back in the cell in solitary confinement. No shiv. No Troy. Just the gray walls and the sketch.

Sean throws the sketch down. Stares at it, like it's bewitched, and mutters, "What the fuck just happened?"


	4. Episode One: Walls - Chapter Four

It's Wednesday, four days after all of the drama with the semi-truck, and Daniel lies on his stomach on his bed, struggling to get through his math homework while constantly glancing at his cell phone, waiting for his brother's weekly call.

He's been worried there might be a big deal made about the semi-truck accident. Any kind of attention, especially from the news, makes him nervous. He's gotten good at using his powers in ways people don't notice, but there still might be people who would try to hurt him if they found out. He always tenses when someone follows him too close, half expecting someone from Lisbeth's church to take him back. Fortunately, there was only the one story on the local news.

But it showed his face. He was mostly in the background, but still . . . that's not good.

When the phone finally lights up, Daniel answers it on the first ring.

A robotic voice says, "An inmate is calling you from Washington State Penitentiary. Would you like to accept this call?"

"Hell yeah, I would like to accept," Daniel says.

The audio clicks as the line is patched through. Then he hears Sean say, "Hey, bro."

"Bro, you will not believe what happened on the drive home from the prison!" Daniel says. He sets his bare feet on the thin carpet, so he can gesticulate wildly around the room. He can't just tell a story—he has to act it out, even if there is no one there to see. "There was this semi-truck and it was driving like a real douchebag and—"

Even though it's a good performance, Daniel's suspicions that Sean is only half listening are confirmed when Sean says, "That's cool" instead of _Holy shit you used your powers did anybody see?_" Instead, Sean says, "So, um, do you remember anything about our conversation Saturday when you came to visit?"

"Dude, I remember all of our conversations. We played Ship, Captain, and Crew even though we could only get four dice. You told me Troy is snoring too loudly. I told you that Chris is the worst person to play _Super Smash Bros_. with because he does all these super lame try-hard moves."

"Uh-huh. Okay," Sean says, like a doctor writing notes. "So there was nothing, I dunno, unusual? Like, you didn't leave angry? I didn't have anything weird, like, say, bandages on my wrists?"

"Um, no? Are you trying to tell me something happened?'

Suddenly, Sean laughs, so loud and sharp that Daniel has to pull the phone away from his ear. "The whole point is nothing happened!" Sean exclaims. "That means it works! Ha-_ha_!"

Daniel sits down on the floor, crosses his legs under him, and scratches his head. "I don't think I'm following what you're saying."

"This is going to sound crazy, but I need you to keep in mind that you are a superwolf who can lift things with his mind, okay?"

"Okay?"

"I have a super power too."

"Holy shit!" Though he's sitting, Daniel manages to jump off the ground. But he can't get both his feet under him, so he falls, landing on his face. He groans as he puts the phone back to his ear. "For real? Sean, that is so cool! What can you do?"

"Yeah, so, I always assumed I didn't have one, but mine doesn't work like yours. At all. I can't move thing with my mind. I can move myself. Through time."

"Like, you can go back and see dinosaurs?"

"No, nothing like that. It has to be a place I have been. And it has to be a place that I've sketched. I think it works, like, to anchor me or something. Like if I spent time visualizing the place, it means I can go travel back there, sort of like how you don't have to think about which roads to take when you go back to your house. I don't fully understand it, but I have been practicing it for a few days, drawing my cell or the recreation area, then traveling back in time to hide things, like corn chips in Troy's toilet paper. And each time I do it, things stay changed. Do you get what that means?"

"That you waste the commissary money we give you by hiding corn chips in toilet paper?"

"No, jackass. Daniel, it means I can change the past."

It takes a minute for those words to sink in.

For a moment, Daniel's heart lifts. He's thought about it too, how everything got messed up six years ago. How he would give almost anything to have their father back. And he hears it in Sean's voice, the high notes of hope, of optimism, that haven't been there in a long, long time.

But then reality comes crashing back down. He knows his brother thinks about that day. Sean told him that he does. Sean has also told him that he, too, would give anything to change it.

And even though Daniel can move things with his mind, time travel—that doesn't seem possible. That seems too much like what you want to be true, not what actually is.

"Sean, how do you know this is you and not just coincidence?"

"Why would Troy put corn chips in his own-? Okay, look, did I call you last week?"

"Yeah, you did. You made me feel pretty shitty about having a _D_ in math."

"You have a _D_ in math!?"

"Yes! You know this! I told you last week."

"Okay, well," Sean says, "the thing is, _I_ didn't talk to you last week. At least, not in the original timeline. I couldn't because I was on suicide watch."

_Suicide_. The word hits Daniel right in his chest. Surely he misheard. "You were on suicide watch?"

"I tried to kill myself, and when you came to visit Saturday, we got into this huge argument about it. But since then, I have traveled back in time and stopped myself. I gave the shiv I used to Troy and asked him to hide it, so I never attempted suicide and my wrists aren't even scarred and we never had the argument and you have no memory of this because in this timeline, none of it ever happened!"

Daniel isn't sure when he walked over to the mirror at the side of his room, but he watches as a single tear slides out of his reflection's eye.

"Daniel?" Sean says. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah . . ." Daniel wipes the tear from his face. "Sean, are you okay?"

"I am fan-fucking-tastic, dude!"

"But you're talking about trying to kill yourself and time travel and all of this sounds crazy."

"I know, but I need you to believe me."

"I need you to promise me that you're not going to hurt yourself."

"You're not listening to me." The opposite side of the line is filled with the background noise of the prison. But he still hears his brother sigh. "I need you to do me a favor. Next time you visit, bring my sketchbook. The one I had when Dad died."

"Bro, I'm really worried about you," Daniel says, his voice cracking. "Can you please just promise me that you're not going to do something stupid?"

"Daniel, I don't have much time left on my call. I need you to say you're going to bring me the sketchbook."

"I need you to say you're not going to kill yourself!" Daniel shouts, and the pictures on his walls shake. One of the miniatures he's painting, a small mech, falls off his desk and onto the floor.

"I'm not going to kill myself, okay, _enano_? Everything is going to be okay," Sean says. "Just . . . bring me the sketchbook, and everything will be okay—better than okay. I will make everything be the way it's supposed to be."

When they hang up, Daniel feels himself deflate, like a balloon that has sprung a leak. Like one of those tube men when its fan stops blowing. He stumbles downstairs, where he finds his grandparents Claire and Stephen sitting at the kitchen table, filling out Christmas cards. "Is everything okay?" his grandma asks. "We heard shouting."

"And the house shook," Stephen adds.

Daniel pulls out a chair, sits, then lays his head on the table. And he isn't sure if he sighs or sobs, but whatever it is, it shakes his body, and a few tears loosen from his eyes. His grandparents give him space, let him just feel the heavy weight pressing down on his back. And when he's ready, he says, "I'm worried about Sean. And I know it's stupid, but I'm thinking about using my powers to break him out."

"Well," his grandfather says, dragging it out so he has time to think, "do you think that's what Sean would want?"

"He would never say it. But if he were being one-hundred-percent honest? He would admit he thinks his life would be better if we had crossed the border to Mexico."

The conversation continues with Daniel asking how he isn't being selfish by letting his brother take the fall, with Daniel insisting Sean is giving too much of himself away. And what none of them realize is that Claire and Daniel have had this exact conversation before, just a few days ago.

Except they never had it . . . because Sean has changed the past.


	5. Episode One: Walls - Chapter Five

On Friday after school, Daniel and his best friend Chris ride their bikes to Angela's Game Shop in downtown Beaver Creek. No one really knows how it stays open in such a small town, but the local nerds are glad it's there. It has any game you can imagine, all the resources you need from _Netrunner_ to _Magic: The Gathering_, and they have miniatures tournaments on Thursdays, too.

Chris wants to go today because he runs a _Dungeons and Dragons_ campaign for Daniel and their friends Andrew, Taggart, and Brian. He's hoping to get some game boards and figurines because their campaign keeps devolving into hours-long arguments about whether their moves can hit because none of them have any spatial awareness.

Daniel has known Chris since they were about nine-years-old. They have more or less been best friends since. While Chris could never replace Sean, having him around has certainly made Sean's being in prison easier. Chris has grown into an awkward, gangly kid with hair that hangs to his shoulders. He isn't exactly "cool," but he so unconcerned about how dorky he is that it actually circles back around to being pretty cool.

"I can't believe you bombed the math test today," Chris says as he looks through a glass display case with small, plastic monsters.

"I didn't bomb it," Daniel says. "I got a C-."

"Mr. Gordon's tests are so easy that a C- is totally bombing it."

"I meant to study, but I have a lot on my mind," Daniel says.

"You mean about how you're thinking of telling Alan Henderson you have a crush on him?"

"Dude, shush!"

"Relax," Chris says. He heads down one of the aisles towards a display for _Dungeons and Dragons_. All the boxes here are gray, sort of like walking down the hall of a castle. "There are three things that I am good at in life: one, being so weird that I scare off anyone who will date me; two, cleaning up after my father; and, three, keeping Daniel Diaz's secrets."

Chris gestures to a box that is at the very top of the shelf, just out of his reach. Daniel checks, makes sure nobody is watching, and floats the box down into Chris's hands. Chris turns it over a couple of times before shaking his head. Daniel sighs and floats the box back up the shelf.

"It's not a good time for me to be dating anyone right now," Daniel says. "Girl or boy. And if it's a boy, I have to tell my grandparents, and I don't know if they would be cool about it."

"I get why you're worried, but sometimes you have to trust people enough to let them do the right thing." Chris takes a box up to the register, and he points to some figures in the glass case.

Daniel waits until the clerk goes to fetch the figures before talking. "Besides, I wasn't stressing about Alan Henderson. I'm really worried about Sean."

"Oh yeah?" Chris says. The cashier comes back with his figures and presses some buttons on the register. Chris hands the cashier some money, and he carries his bag towards the door.

"All you have to say is 'oh yeah'?" Daniel says as they step onto the sidewalk, which is wet and slushy. It's rather warm for December, but he still zips up his coat.

"No, it's just—you're kind of _always_ worried about Sean. It's your default state. I get that it's really scary to hear him say he thought about killing himself, but he also said he asked his cellmate to keep him from doing it. That's actually kind of good, man."

"It's not just the suicidal thoughts. It's also that he thinks he can time travel."

Chris shrugs. "Why don't you believe him?"

"Because it's crazy! It sounds like he's losing his grip on reality, like everything he has been through in his stupid life has finally made him snap."

"Dude, you can make things fly and explode with your brain. Time travel is at least theoretically possible. There are, like, all of these physicists who write books about black holes and quantum particles and how you could, in theory, go back in time. Look, I'm not trying to be a dick. I know your lives are messy. And I know the volume on all of it is turned way-the-fuck up. But everyone's lives are messy. And you and Sean, you guys deal with it pretty well, all things considered. I don't think your brother suddenly stopped being the strongest, most badass person we know."

"I guess," Daniel says, swinging his leg over his bike. Though Chris knows him better than anyone else here in Beaver Creek, Chris has always thought Daniel was stronger than he really is. It's the power. But power doesn't actually make you strong. And when he was a kid, it was easy to think of Sean as a kind of superhero. Always taking care of things. Always knowing what to do. But as he's gotten older, he's realized that even the strongest of us have a breaking point, and that Sean is just a messed up twenty-two-year-old. He isn't Power Bear. He has to have a breaking point.

The two boys are barely on their bikes when, suddenly, a young woman steps in front of them blocking their path. She's wearing a green parka and yellow stocking cap, which her blue, shoulder-length hair falls out of. Freckles dot her cheeks, and she has a bag, too big and square to be a regular purse, slung over her shoulder. The parka is unzipped, and Daniel can make out the top of what he thinks is an image of a butterfly on her t-shirt.

"Excuse me," the woman says, "I don't mean to bother you, but I was wondering—aren't you one of the people who were involved in that strange semi crash last week?"

"Uhhh," Daniel says, "I don't even have my drivers' permit yet. I sure can't drive any eighteen-wheelers."

"I see," the woman says, the corner of her lip turning into a slight smile. "You wouldn't be Daniel Diaz, would you? Younger brother of Sean Diaz?"

_Oh shit_, Daniel thinks. This lady doesn't look like she's from Lisbeth's church or some government agency that wants to lock him in Area 51, but that doesn't mean she isn't some kind of weirdo who wants to seriously hurt him. "You have the wrong person," he says. "Not all Mexicans are related, you know? Have a nice day." He starts to pedal past her and signals to Chris to do the same, but the woman does not budge from the sidewalk.

"So I know about your brother's trial. Supposedly, he murdered a police officer for killing your dad back in 2016. But something the state of Washington could never explain is how a sixteen-year-old boy threw a grown man fifty feet in the air and flipped over a police car single-handedly."

_Shit shit double shit. _By now, fear has clutched the bottom of Daniel's spine. There's a couple of people on the street, but he might have to use his powers. He could fling this woman out of the way. Maybe just hold her in place. If he was careful—and fast—they could get away and make a plan without this becoming a scene.

Before he can do anything, Chris hops off his bike and jumps between Daniel and the woman. "Look, lady," he says, "I don't know who you are or what your deal is, but if you don't get out of our way and leave my friend alone, it's gonna be clobberin' time, and I will knock your lights out." Chris takes a stance that is supposed to look intimidating, but Daniel's dad used to box when he was younger. He taught his boys about proper stances and how to hold your fists, and what Chris is doing is . . . not that. Chris looks more like a desperate chicken trying to peck at its own wings.

The woman, also, doesn't look intimidated. Instead, she reaches into a pocket and pulls out an ink pen. Which she hurls directly at Daniel's head.

He flinches. Put his arms up. And on instinct, he reacts. When he opens his eyes, he sees the pen floating in the air, two inches from his face. "Aw shit," he mutters.

"Oh my god," the woman exclaims, covering her mouth. "That is so cool! I'm sorry, I'm kind of geeking out over here, but I have searched for a long time and have never actually met someone else with an ability."

"Wait," Daniel says. "What do you mean 'someone else'?"

"Oh, I guess I should have introduced myself," the woman says. "My name is Max Caulfield. I used to be able to manipulate time."

"As in time travel?" Chris says, turning, big-eyed towards Daniel. "As in that thing that I was just telling my best friend is theoretically possible?"

"Something like that, yeah," Max says. "You got a coffee shop in this town? Some place we could sit down and talk? I'll even buy you kids an age-appropriate drink."


	6. Episode One: Walls - Chapter Six

Beaver Creek is probably the last place in the country that hasn't been touched by Starbucks, so Daniel and Chris take Max to the cleverly named Beaver Creek Coffee Company. Daniel orders a hot chocolate because too much caffeine makes him jittery. Chris, however, orders the largest coffee they make with multiple shots of espresso. One time, Chris drank a liter of Mountain Dew and sang the _entirety_ of fucking _Spider-Man: Turn on the Dark_ at 1:00 in the fucking morning, so Daniel is not pumped about Coffee-with-Espresso Chris.

But right now, Daniel has other things on his mind. Namely, Max Caulfield, this blue-haired woman who knows way too much about him and says she has the same time travel abilities Sean claims he has.

Max orders a simple latte then pays for all three of their drinks. She even adds a few bucks as a tip, so at least, Daniel thinks, she's not a total asshole. As she sits down, Daniel studies her. She looks like she's older than his brother, but not by a lot, and her eyes have dark, baggy circles beneath them. He has no idea if he can trust her, but she seems friendly. And this is a pretty public place. People would notice if she drugged him here.

"So do you just go around investigating supernatural stories like Mulder and Scully and the Winchesters?" Chris asks.

"I'm kind of more of a Ryan Bergara or a Shane Madej," she says. "No, I'm a photographer and sometimes-photojournalist." She gestures to the bag she's set in the chair beside her. "That's my camera. I just keep an eye open for unexplained phenomena on the side. I actually noticed your story, Daniel, years ago."

"Oh yeah?" This doesn't put him at ease. If anything, it makes him more paranoid. Has she been watching him for years? Like a stalker?

"Yeah. Like I said, there was the way that the state could never explain _how_ your brother killed that police officer. But I know they laid out the case that everywhere the two of you went, something blew up or caught fire. Is it true you even tore a hole in Trump's border wall?"

Daniel shrugs. "It was really more like a fence."

"Still, nice job. The reason I dismissed your case was that your brother went to jail. I didn't understand why Sean would do time in prison if he could just rip off his cell door. Then I happened to be on my way to visit my parents in Seattle when I caught the story about the semi, and suddenly it clicked. What if Sean didn't have the power? What if he was protecting the person who actually did?"

"Well, congrats, I guess you figured it out," Daniel says, crossing his arms.

"You don't seem too happy about me figuring it out," she says with a slight smile.

"There have just been people in the past who took advantage of me," Daniel says. "It's hard to just trust people after that."

Max stares into her latte mug, the steam rising up past her face. "I understand that. I had someone that I really admired who turned out to be a dangerous shit bag. You should Google Mark Jefferson sometime."

Chris immediately whips out his phone, and his eyes widen as he reads through a series of news articles. "Holy shit, dude," he says, holding the phone to Daniel. What Daniel sees is pretty horrifying. Jefferson was a hotshot photographer and teacher at some private school—where he was totally drugging, manipulating, and murdering kids for his fucked up photography.

"It's actually a lot worse than those articles say," Max says. "Time travel and all that. I undid a lot of the really messed up stuff he did, especially to me. It's hard to believe I ever looked up to that asshole."

There's a crack in her voice that is so defensive but broken, that Daniel recognizes it as someone who has been genuinely, seriously hurt by someone they not only trusted but admired. "There was this time when I thought Sean might be dead, that I, uh, might have killed him," Daniel says slowly. It's like he's not choosing to say the words, but he has been holding them in so long that they crawl out on their own. "So I started living with this lady who ran a church in Nevada. Well, it was more like a cult. I thought she cared about me, but really, she was just using me for my powers, and . . . she almost made me do some bad things."

"Dude," Chris says, "you never told me about this."

Daniel shrugs. "I wasn't trying to keep it from you. It's just hard to talk about. Because . . .I dunno . . ."

"Because it's scary," Max interjects. "It makes you question everything. Like, if this person I admired could do this, could someone else? My friends? My family? And what if that person comes for me again? And maybe the worst part is that sense of . . . a kind of embarrassment. You feel ashamed for getting fooled."

"Yeah," Daniel says, gesturing to Max. "All of that. And I almost chose this crazy preacher lady over my brother, and that makes me feel like the absolute shittiest person in the world."

Sometimes, Chris's expressions are hard to read, sort of like he is a robot that doesn't process human emotions correctly. So Daniel is caught off guard when Chris nearly tackles him out of the chair with a hug. It's tight. And goes on and on. "Okay, man, you can let go," Daniel says, rolling his eyes towards Max.

"Not yet," Chris says.

And the hug keeps going. Until Daniel finally sighs, drops his defenses. Lets his best friend who has been with him through so much _actually_ hug him. He lets himself open up and lets whatever you call the love of two boys' friendship warm his heart. "Thanks, buddy," Daniel says, patting his friend on the back.

"You two are cute," Max says as Chris releases him. "Anyway, you're right to be guarded, but I promise I am not one of those people who is interested in hurting or exploiting you. I'm just kind of messed up from what happened to me, and I want to know if there are other people who can do things like I can. I'm trying to find some peace or understanding. Can you tell me more about how your abilities work?"

Daniel shrugs. "There isn't much to tell."

"Oh, there is a lot to tell," Chris says. "I know he looks like a scrawny little geek, but our Daniel here is basically a superhero. Not, like, Avengers-level, but he could definitely be a Guardian of the Galaxy."

"Nah," Daniel says. "I point at things. I think really hard. Then I can move them with my mind. The heavier something is, the harder it is for me to move, but I have gotten pretty strong."

"Strong enough to pick up a semi and two cars full of people?" Max asks

"Uh," Daniel says, rubbing the back of his neck, "Yeah. So I guess that's pretty strong."

"Can you show me?" Max says, her voice like a kid's on Christmas. She sets a quarter and two nickels on the table.

Daniel isn't sure if he should. But it's just a couple of coins, and Max really does seem genuine. He checks to make sure no one is paying attention, then he waves his hand, and the coins float in the air and into Max's coat pocket.

"That's pretty cool," she says.

"He can also blow things up like they're that dude's head from _Scanners_," Chris adds.

"I'll be sure not to piss you off, then," Max says.

"Yeah, well, he cries when he gets angry, so pissing him off would also be real embarrassing for me," Chris says. Daniel rolls his eyes and punches his best friend in the shoulder.

"Anyway, you know a lot about me," Daniel says. "What's your deal?"

Max smiles, but it's the way Sean smiles when Daniel visits him in prison. It's like someone reading the lines of a happy person with none of the commitment to the part. She went to that private school Jefferson worked at up in Arcadia Bay, this kind of quiet coastal town that Daniel's dad took him and Sean to once for a weekend. It's where they learned that Sean is allergic to shellfish, so they spent most of the trip at the hospital. But Max tells them that when she was a little older than them, she discovered she could "rewind" time. And later, she learned that she could actually travel back and change the past through old photographs. "It was mostly fine when I undid small things. So, like, if I said the wrong thing to someone and hurt their feelings, I could go back thirty seconds to say the right thing. But if I went back further than that and changed something big, it almost always made things worse."

"Worse how?" Daniel asks, dread sitting on his chest.

"Just worse," Max says, looking directly at him.

"Could you show us how it works?" Chris asks. "It would be really cool to see two superheroes."

"I don't know if I can anymore. I haven't used my powers in about ten years." Max gets real quiet, and her voice cracks a bit when she starts to go on. "I had a friend. Actually, she was more than that. And she died. And I used my powers to save her. But fate or whatever seemed to have it out for her. So I kept saving her. And the more I saved her, the more things got fucked up."

"How fucked up?" Daniel asks.

"Just . . . fucked up," Max says, wiping at her eye.

"Jesus," Chris says. "That sucks. Why is getting superpowers dependent on having really bad shit happen to you?"

"Kind of what I'm trying to figure out," Max says. She draws in a deep breath, and her voice steadies to a practiced calm. "Anyway, I should probably let you boys get going. I really appreciate you trusting me enough to show me your powers, Daniel." She slides a card over to him. "That's all of my contact information, if you ever want to talk to someone else who has had their 'superpowers' lead to a bunch of 'fucked up shit' happening to them.

"Wait," Daniel says, running his hands over his face. What Sean told him on the phone, it feels like a secret. A big one, one that he shouldn't give to this woman he just met. But Daniel is also incredibly, overwhelmingly worried about his brother, and Max is saying that they could be in much deeper shit than either of them realize. "There's something else I'd like to talk to you about. My brother Sean told me he thinks he has a power too. Sean thinks he can travel through time to the day that our dad died, save him, and stop all the bad stuff that happened to us afterwards."

Max sits back down. And suddenly, her face becomes so pale that her freckles shine like little brown stars burning through the clouds. "Daniel, I cannot overstate this—you absolutely cannot let him do that. If he does, there will be consequences, and they will be bigger and worse than either of you can possibly imagine."


	7. Episode One: Walls - Chapter Seven

As slowly as time usually passes for Sean in prison, waiting for Daniel's visit feels like pulling himself across the desert with his tongue. When he did track, Sean was good about pacing himself, knowing that his patience would pay off with enough energy to win the race at the end. But waiting for Daniel to bring the sketchbook is like being water boarded; with each tick of the clock, another liter of water is dumped on his face.

During their Wednesday call, Daniel seems worried. Finding the sketchbook wasn't a problem because apparently he keeps it on his dresser so he can read it when he really misses his big brother—which is sweet but another reason why Sean _needs_ to fix things. And Daniel says he will bring it even though he totally doesn't sound like he wants to. After some badgering, he finally brings up an old movie their dad made them watch.

"You mean _The Butterfly Effect?_" Sean says. "The one with that guy from _That 70s Show_? Daniel, that was just a stupid movie. I know Dad kept insisting we didn't 'get' it, but it was just crappy."

"Okay but what if things happen like in that movie?" Daniel says. "You go back. You save Dad, but then something much, much worse happens?"

"What would be so bad about having our dad back?" Sean asks. "Oh no, you don't have that scar on your shoulder from getting shot. Uh-oh, I have two eyes—how horrible!"

Daniel sighs on the other end of the line, and Sean leans against the concrete wall where the greasy prison phone is attached. There's a line of inmates behind him, waiting to talk to whoever it is these guys talk to. But Sean could still kick himself. Daniel's the reason he's missing the eye, and he didn't mean to throw that in the kid's face.

"I'm sorry, Daniel, I wasn't trying to make you feel bad," Sean says. "But, serious question, do you remember Dad?"

"Of course I remember Dad, Sean."

"But do you, like, really remember him? You were just a kid when he died, and a lot has happened since. Do you remember how his voice sounded? Or the way his aftershave smelled when he finished shaving? Or the way he would do this quiet laugh when he told a bad joke that only he thought was funny?"

"I do, bro, but . . ."

"No _but_, Daniel. Just stop. Close your eyes and picture him for me, okay? What do you remember most about him?"

Daniel doesn't want to, but Sean insists. Finally, Daniel relents and after a bit of silence, he says, "I miss how he made me felt like he loved me, even when I was in trouble. Even when it felt like I had messed up really bad."

"I miss that too, _enano_," Sean says. "How could I possibly make the world worse by bringing that back?"

# # #

When visitation day finally comes, Sean wakes up extra early. There's nothing to do until the routine of prison starts, so he lies in the dark, smiling, trying to imagine what his new life—no, his real life, the one he was supposed to have—is going to be like. Maybe he will be in school. Maybe he'll have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. A boyfriend would be cool, too. Even if he is working cleaning diarrhea off toilets at a Taco Bell, anywhere is better than here.

Going through the showers and going to breakfast are still pretty miserable, but it's hard for Sean not to feel happy. Because this is the last time he has to shower too close to too many dangerous, naked men. The last time when he could get punched or stabbed for sitting at the wrong table. The last time when bumping into someone while returning his tray can get him killed.

Even though he tries to keep cool, act like nothing's up, he's humming an old Gorillaz song in his cell, and his cellmate Troy asks why he's in such a good mood.

"It's visitation day," Sean says. "I'm just looking forward to seeing my brother . . ." He pauses, because if things go right—and they _will_—it's not just his brother he's seeing today. "I'm looking forward to seeing my family, you know?"

"I think that's real cool man, what you and your brother got," Troy says. "That little dude's up here every other week, like clock work. Most of us, even our parents and wives start giving themselves permission to skip a visit. Then not come at all. Not your brother, though. What you guys got is special. "

"Yeah. It is. I guess I don't have much, but Daniel—I'd do just about anything for him."

When it is finally—_finally_—visiting hours, the guards come and take Sean from the small recreation room where some of the other prisoners are watching football or rugby or something. It might even be literal ballet because Sean has been pacing the sides of the room, chewing on the back of his thumb, focused on nothing but the sketchbook and finally going home.

He has to remind himself to be cool, to not burst into song like it's a goddamn _High School Musical: The Prison Years_ as the guard leads him to the visitors' room. And when the door to the visitors' room opens, there's Daniel, like always, sitting at one of the metal tables bolted to the floor. And while Sean is always happy to see his little brother, today, his heart leaps up into his throat. His smile stretches so wide it could cut his face in half.

Because today is the day he is going to set everything right.

Except . . .

Daniel isn't alone.

Sitting beside him is a freckled-faced woman with blue hair.

"Hey, bro," Sean says, eying the woman as he hugs Daniel and they sit down. "Did you bring the sketchbook? Did the guards give you any shit about bringing it in?"

Daniel holds it up. Sean would recognize it anywhere, the stains it picked up from the road forever etched into his brain. He recalls perfectly the feel of its pages' ratty edges against his fingers. But the thing has held up. It's tough, like the Diaz brothers it traveled with.

"Security went through it a few times," Daniel says. "They thought it was just, like, short stories based on what happened. They photocopied some of it, I guess in case we do more crimes."

"It doesn't matter," Sean says. "It's not like any of this will have happened." He reaches for the book . . . but Daniel pulls it away.

It's such a small action, but it feels like watching someone take the life preserver as he slips beneath the surface of the ocean. And Daniel must know it too because the fifteen-year-old can't even look his older brother in the eye as he does it.

"What's going on, _enano_?" Sean asks. "Who is this lady you've brought?"

"My name is Max Caulfield," the woman says. "It's nice to meet you." She holds out her hand, but it hangs there awkwardly because Sean refuses to shake it.

Oh, she smiles. She's trying to be friendly. But she is also clearly the reason Daniel is worried about letting him save their father. "Are you, like, my brother's new girlfriend? If so, I think you're a little old for him."

"Not only is he too young," Max says, "he's also not really my type."

"She knows I have superpowers and that you are thinking about changing the past," Daniel says, hugging the sketchbook to his chest.

"What?" Sean leans forward, ready to slap Daniel upside the head. He's actually reaching out when he remembers the guards. They would definitely taze him for slapping a visitor, so he sits back down, forces his voice to stay calm. "Why would you tell a stranger about this, little brother?"

"It's okay, Sean. She can time travel too," Daniel says.

"It's true," Max says. "When I was in high school, I learned that I could rewind time. And I used my power to save my friend Chloe, and I thought I could make all of our lives better. But all I did was make everything worse, so I'm here to tell you that you cannot do the thing you are thinking about doing. If you go back in time to save your dad, there will be consequences."

Sean eyes this woman, this "Max." "What do you mean by consequences?"

"I mean, the past doesn't want to be changed. So if you change something, the universe tries to balance it back. But I found that the universe usually over corrects. So, it's like, if you go back to save your best friend's dad, the universe pays you back by paralyzing her and then she asks _you_ to put her out of her misery." Max's voice cracks, and she turns, looks out one of the barred windows. She wipes a "tear" from her eye. She tries to be discrete about it, like she doesn't want Sean and Daniel to notice she's crying—which is a pretty good show. It's just the type of thing Sean's big-hearted little brother would fall for.

"I'm sorry," Max says. "I haven't thought about this in a while."

"How do you know any of this is true, Daniel?" Sean says. "Have you seen her rewind time? Can you show us now, Max?"

She shakes her head, her stupid blue bangs falling over her eyes. "I don't know if I can. I don't mess with time anymore. It's just better to accept the past as is. Even if it hurts, the only direction we can move is forward."

"This is all such obvious bullshit," Sean says. "Daniel, do you believe her?"

"Dude, Sean, you don't have to be such an asshole," Daniel says. "Max seems legit. I believe her."

"Well, I think she's full of shit." Sean points a finger at her, turns so she is forced to look directly at the patch that covers his bad eye. "Max, I think you are full of shit. My brother has been lied to before by people who wanted to manipulate him, take advantage of his kindness, and exploit his powers. And I don't know what your game is, but I'm not going to let you prey on this kid."

"I'm not a kid," Daniel says.

"And I'm not trying to take advantage of him," Max says. "I swear. The only thing I want is for all the shit I went through to mean something. I want to stop you from ruining your life."

"Stop me from ruining my life?" Sean laughs. Like, at first, it's sharp and short. But then it's rolling from his belly. It's uncontrollable and so hard that he has to lean on the table. And neither Max nor Daniel join him, because it's not a laughter over something humorous because nothing about this is funny. It's the kind of laughter that comes when life is so ridiculously, utterly absurd that the only thing you can do is either laugh or curl into a ball and die. "_Eres una chica blanca muy estúpida. _Look a-fucking-round, Max. Where the fuck do you think we are right now? My life is already pretty fucking ruined."

Daniel hangs his head, and Sean immediately feels a pang of guilt. Just like how Daniel tries to act overly happy when he visits, Sean works to hide just how miserable he is. It's why, even though he knows he made the right choice to surrender at the border, he wonders what would have happened if he had made a different one. But, dammit, he's angry and right and this lady, who probably went to some boring-ass private school so she dyed her hair to be "interesting," has no idea what the fuck she is talking about.

"I know it doesn't seem like it," Max says, "but things can be worse than this. If you change something in the past, it's like pulling back a rubber band. It doesn't just snap back into place. It keeps going. You have to pay for every change you make, and you will pay them back with interest."

"I am willing to roll those dice," Sean says. "I can only go up from snake eyes."

"Chloe was more than my best friend," Max says, her voice rising, desperate for Sean to believe her. "I loved her, more deeply than I think I will ever love anything. And I found her dead, so I undid her death. But she kept dying. Over and over. And the more I tried to save her, the more it made things worse. And eventually the universe got so pissed off that it sent this fucked up temporal storm—this giant, swirling vortex of spite. And it was going to destroy our entire town of Arcadia Bay. Literally everyone would have died, the whole town destroyed, if I kept saving Chloe. She didn't want that on her conscience. She didn't want that on _my_ conscience. So I went back in time, stopped myself from ever saving her. I had to watch the only person I will ever love die, and I am telling you Sean, if you do this, there will be a storm, and whatever shit you think you have seen, you will be facing something far worse than you can imagine."

"I am sorry about your friend Chloe," Sean says, his voice calm like a knife. "But you see these scars on my face? They are all over my body. Sometimes, if I'm sitting just a little slumped over, I can't breathe so good. Because my ribs got kicked in and broke and never healed right. I got sentenced to prison at age seventeen in the most bullshit trial of the century. I will be here until I am a middle-aged fucking adult. I had to watch my fucking dad get murdered by the fucking people who are supposed to protect us. I am missing a goddamn fucking eye! _This_ is the fucking storm, Max! The life I am living right now, there is _nothing_ to look forward to. Who gives a shit about fucking up the past when the present is a shitshow and you literally have no fucking future?"

"You have me," Daniel says quietly, his head still down.

"What?" Sean says.

"You're talking like you have nothing good in your life. But you have me."

"I know that, _enano_," Sean says, his voice softening. "I was just upset. You are the one good thing I have."

"Don't do that shit where you start telling the truth and dismiss it as 'Oh, I'm just upset, _enano_.' Am I _really_ a good thing in your life, Sean?" Daniel says, and finally Sean can see his eyes. They have the same intensity that happens when Daniel's powers are going crazy. Except, nothing in the room is shaking. "You made all of those choices that hurt you because of me. Your life wouldn't be so hopeless if you didn't always put me first."

"I did all of that because you're my brother. I would do it again in a heartbeat."

"But you shouldn't have to! I know you don't tell me how miserable you are in prison, Sean. I know it's much worse than you let on. There's no way that Troy snoring is the _worst_ thing that happens to you." Daniel sighs. "And though I am closer to you than anyone, I don't tell you the really messy stuff in my life because I already feel like I am such a burden on you. As close as we are, with everything that's happened, it's like there's still this . . . this . . ."

"This wall?" Sean finishes.

Daniel nods.

"I can fix all of this, _enano_." Sean reaches across the table, squeezes his brother's hand. It's cold. "I can make it so that none of this happened. No walls keeping us apart."

"But what if Max is right? It hurts me, how much you've been through. I don't want to be responsible for making things worse."

"And, Sean Diaz, you _will_ make things worse," Max jumps in. "You cannot do this. Please, Sean. Please make the right choice here."

"It's not my choice to make, though." Sean says, sitting back in his chair. He crosses his arms. "I am going back. I knew I would do this, even before I knew I could. But I can't do it without the sketchbook. And I don't have the sketchbook. Daniel does, and he doesn't have to give it to me." Sean turns to his brother. "So, Daniel, it's your choice this time, _hermanito_. We thought the story of the wolf brothers was over . . . but it doesn't _have_ to be. How does their story _really_ end?"

Daniel sits with his head down again, like a prayer, his knuckles whitening as he clutches the sketchbook. Each second of the clock ticks by like a gunshot, echoing through the tiny room.

Finally, Daniel sniffles. "I think the wolf brothers' story ended at the border."

And Sean's heart sinks. Just straight out of his body. It splatters on the floor. Everything, just everything falls out of him. His stomach. His organs. He thought he had experienced the worst moments of his life, but this, being so close and having it taken away, this is the actual worst.

**Soundtrack: "Wolf Like Me" **

**by TV on the Radio**

But then Daniel looks up. "But everything that happened to the wolf brothers was so unfair. They never really got to have the story they deserved, did they? So . . . I say, let's try it again. From the beginning."

"No!" Max says, and she reaches to take the sketchbook from Daniel. But he waves his hand, holds her in place with his powers. She's pleading with them not to do it, but Sean takes the sketchbook, flips to the page where he drew his bedroom when he was a kid, still innocent, all those years ago.

And Sean stares at it. Lets the image wash over him. And Max keeps begging for him not to as he travels back in time.

* * *

_charge me your day rate_

_i'll turn you out in kind_

_when the moon is round and full_

_gonna teach you tricks that'll blow your (mongrel) mind_

_baby doll, I recognize_

_you're a hideous thing inside_

_if ever there was a lucky kind it's_

_you_

_you_

_you_

_you_


	8. Episode One: Walls - Chapter Eight

Sean no longer feels the cold, metal prison chair that forces his spine far too straight like a fencepost. Instead, it feels like he's sitting on some kind of plastic cloud. It's soft. He's sunk in, and maybe close to the floor because his knees are bent near his chest. His fingers are wrapped around a pen; the sketchbook, far-less ragged, sits on his lap. The pages still have a subtle, new-book smell.

He's sitting in a beanbag. Maybe _his_ beanbag. And, though he's scared to open his eyes, scared that this didn't work, he opens them and sees . . .

. . . the bedroom of a quiet, naïve sixteen-year-old boy.

With walls that have their paint chipping. Two of them an ugly, mustard brown. And two of them painted blue—but only partly because Dad let his twelve-year-old son do it, so when the paint ran out, he never got more.

With posters from skateboard magazines and of pretentious, foreign art films his friends were getting him into.

With pictures of his best friends from high school. There's Eric. And Ellery! And Lyla. A lot of Lyla.

The clothes he shoved under his bed because he was too lazy to wash them. Including the shirt and socks he wore for a month straight at track practice, forgot about, then got too scared they would be covered in fungus to touch.

His trophies from track, which were, really, the last time society told him he was good for something.

His bed.

His desk.

His stereo.

His whole life. His real life.

The faint smell of cigarette smoke wafts across his nose. It's coming off his clothes, and . . . he's even wearing his favorite hoodie, with the wolf silhouette beneath the word _SQUAD_. But it is far cleaner than the last time he saw it, and it doesn't have even a single loose thread.

And Sean's first thought is _I finally woke up._ All of that shit with Dad dying and being on the run and getting arrested, it was just an intense, vivid nightmare that happened because he dozed off while drawing. It was just his hyper-active imagination running wild.

But then he realizes that everything he sees in front of him, he is seeing _all_ of it. No blind spot. He waves his left hand in front of his face, and he can still see it because he has _two_ good eyes.

"Oh my god holy shit holy shit holy shit," he mutters, tears frustratingly blinding him as he tries to take it all in. His laptop. His lightbox with the Vonnegut quote: _So it goes_. All of his drawings and art books and bulletin board. The stain on the floor where he spilled Kool Aid and blamed it on Daniel. Even his work ID.

He pulls up his hoodie, at his torso and the sleeve. No wolf tattoo . . . but no scars.

He is back home in Seattle. In the life he was supposed to be living.

It's overwhelming. He wants to hug everything, as dumb as it is. And his dad! His dad is somewhere in this house—the garage. Sean could go see him_ right now_, hug him, tell him he loves him. Say all of those things he didn't say because he was a stupid fucking sixteen-year-old and too self-centered to realize how great his life was before it was gone. And Dad will say he loves Sean back and that he's proud of him because Sean isn't in jail, hasn't given his father any reason to _not_ be proud of him yet.

But outside Sean's bedroom window, he sees Daniel. And Daniel looks so small. It almost makes Sean smile; he had forgotten just how little the kid used to be. And he _gets_ it, why everyone thought Daniel was adorable back then, even when he found his little brother annoying.

But there Daniel is, messy dark hair. Green Halloween mask hanging off the back of his neck. Blue flannel shirt. And holding a bottle of fake blood which means—

"Oh shit . . . shit is already going down," Sean mutters. He fumbles with the bedroom door, one-handed because he is still clutching the sketchbook, and almost crashes against the kitchen counter as he races to get outside.

Here's how things happen: Daniel is screwing around and spills fake blood on their asshole neighbor Brett. Sean gets into a fight with Brett. Police show up, see a white kid covered in "blood." Dad gets shot. Everything goes to shit.

Sean has to stop _all_ of that. But it's happening _right now_ and he's panicked so all of that planning, all of those clever ways he came up with to change the past just burn right up in smoke as he races against time.

"Daniel!" Sean shouts, tripping over his backpack he left in the middle of the floor seven years ago as he throws open the front door. Brett is at the edge of their two yards. Daniel is almost to him.

So Sean runs.

He is sixteen. A track star. His body has never been injured, except for a broken leg when he was thirteen. He is in peak physical condition.

So he is much, much faster than he realizes.

He means to grab Daniel, to scoop him up like you might in a Christmas morning hug. But he's too panicked, moving too fast. He can't stop, so he tackles the boy to the ground. Plows into him, like a defensive lineman. Just obliterates him like a Ferrari's windshield smashing a bug on the highway.

The bottle of fake blood flies out of Daniel's hands. Its top comes off, and when it lands, it erupts, spraying the goop everywhere. The cold globs of it rain down on them and make wet, slapping sounds against their skin, hair, and grass.

First Daniel sniffles. Then he whimpers. Then he's sobbing. Just these heavy, scared sobs that bellow from deep in his little chest.

At the edge of the yard, Brett cackles like a hyena, so hard that he's slapping his knees. "Oh my god, I got to see a queer tackle a retard! Man, that's how they should have tackled your father when he snuck over the border!"

Sean doesn't even flip him off. Instead, he picks his brother up off the ground. Or rather, he tries. Daniel is nine years old and too big for Sean to carry with Daniel struggling, and Sean is doing it with one arm because he still holds the sketchbook. And Daniel pulls with all his might to get away from his big brother who must seem like an irrational monster right now.

But it's for Daniel's own good. And Sean's. And their dad's. And if they don't get inside, it could still happen. The cop could still show up, still mistake the fake blood for real blood. See two brown kids causing a disturbance. One cop's bullet could end all of their lives.

So Sean drags his little brother, kicking and screaming and crying into the house. Just pulling him across the ground like he's as worthless as a bag of garbage. And when they get inside, Sean kneels down, sets his hand on Daniel's shoulder and says, "You're okay. Hey, buddy, you're okay."

Daniel's clothes, his chest and knees in particular, are stained with dirt. Dried autumn grass is caked against the boy's arms and hair, glued there with the fake blood. And Daniel's lip is really bleeding. So is his nose; the blood trickles out of his nostrils and into his mouth, so it's hard to tell where one injury ends and the other begins.

And on his wrist are bruises in the shape of Sean's fingers.

But the worst—the worst part is Daniel's eyes. Hurt, tear-filled, and scared of his older brother.

"What the heck?" Daniel cries, pulling away from Sean's hand. He takes a huge, whimpering breath, sucks blood back into his nose, which makes him cough. "Why did you attack me?"

"I'm sorry, _enano_, I know you can't understand, but I need you to calm down so I can explain."

"You want me to calm down so Dad doesn't yell at you. You really hurt me, Sean!"

"I know I hurt you, but I didn't mean to."

"It doesn't matter if you meant to!" Suddenly, Daniel sobs again, and a wad of bright-red snot falls out of the kid's nose. There's nothing else close by, so Sean tries to wipe it away with the sleeve of his hoodie, but Daniel pulls away, so he's standing there, whimpering with his face even more of a mess. "I know this isn't going to make sense," Sean says, "but you playing outside—you would have spilt that fake blood on Brett and caused . . . a lot of trouble, _hermanito_."

"You're a jerk," Daniel says with a sudden clam in his voice. "You don't even like Brett, but you, what, care more about what he thinks than me?"

"That's not what—"

"I have a bad brother," Daniel says, and it's not an accusation. It's more like Daniel is saying it to himself. He drags his sleeve across hisface. It just smears fake blood and snot over his face creating a redish-green mask of pathetic grossness. "You're a jerk. And you're going to be in so much trouble."

Sean tries to grab Daniel's hand, but Daniel yanks his arm from Sean's grip and storms off to his bedroom where he slams the door, leaving Sean kneeling there in their living room. Alone. He isn't sure what to do. He could go after Daniel, try to explain. Maybe he could find their dad.

But he doesn't have much time.

He can already feel himself being pulled back to the present.

Footsteps are coming up from the downstairs garage. "What is all that noise?" a voice says. It's his dad. For the first time in years, Sean is going to see his father.

"_Papito_?" Sean says, voice cracking. But as a shadow appears in the doorway stairwell, Sean's vision gets hazy. First, everything looks like a water-color painting. Then, like the pencil lines of a rough draft. And, suddenly, everything fades away.

And Sean is pulled back to the present.

A present very different than the one he left.

**Soundtrack – Outro: "Michigan" **

**by Milk Carton Kids**

**This has been "The Bravest Wolf in the World"**

**A ****_Life is Strange 2_**** Fan Fiction**

**Episode One: Walls**

* * *

_the clouds move over pontiac skies_

_their silent thunder matches mine_

_i know this feeling from long ago_

_i wondered was it gone? now i know_

_so when she calls don't send her my way_

_when it hurts, you'll know it's the right thing_

_michigan's in the rearview now_

_. . ._

_what am I supposed to do now? _


	9. Episode Two: The Unknown - Chapter One

_Once upon a time in a wild, wild world, there were two wolf brothers living in their home lair with their papa wolf._

_They lived in peace . . . until hunters took their dad away._

_The wolf brothers wandered for days and nights, learning to live on their own for the first time._

_That's when the big brother learned that the little one was not an ordinary wolf . . . but a super wolf!_

_They decided to head south to the distant land of their ancestors . . . but danger always followed them._

_In the end, escaping to the land of their ancestors meant asking the little wolf to maul the hunters, to rip out their throats._

_And the big brother could not ask the little one to do something so cruel._

_So the big brother let himself be taken._

_The hunters locked him in a cage, and for days and nights, the big brother paced back and forth. He missed his home. And he tried to chew off his own paws._

_That's when he learned that he, too, was a super wolf. _

_One that could change the past._

_The little brother met a doe who warned the wolf brothers that using their powers would only lead to more sadness._

_But the two wolf brothers were already so sad, and they missed their papa and each other so much, that they did not listen._

_And so the big brother unmade their world to create a new one where hunters never took their dad away . . ._

**Episode Two – The Unknown**

_Chapter One_

**Soundtrack – Intro: "We Used to Wait"**

**by Arcade Fire**

_Savannah, Georgia_

_December 2022_

_Six Years After the Day Esteban Diaz Would Have Been Shot_

When Sean opens his eyes—which, hells yeah, he still has two of—he is holding his sketchbook and standing on a small platform, surrounded by people in their late teens and early twenties sitting at drawing tables. Each of them grip a pencil, which scratches against the paper in front of them. They study Sean impassively. They are drawing him.

He is also completely naked.

Immediately, he covers his dang-a-lang with the sketchbook.

"Mr. Diaz, please keep still!" an elderly woman shouts from the edge of the group. She's wearing a dress that looks more like a cape. The woman commands such authority that when she points, Sean mutters, "Sorry," and holds the sketchbook back at his side.

A few of the students snicker. One young woman, a purple streak in her black hair, rolls her eyes and sighs.

_Okay,_ Sean thinks. _So I am definitely not in prison._ His brain feels like a stew, like he's waking up after black-out binge drinking and is trying to piece together what happened the night before. Only it's not just one night—it's _every_ night, his entire life.

Body still, he moves his eyes around the room. It's some sort of art studio, probably a life-drawing class. _Holy shit. Maybe I went to art school? _he thinks. That would be pretty cool_._ But the last few years of his life have taught him that his universe loves a sick and cruel joke. _Or maybe I'm volunteering to pose because I dropped out of art school, and I just sell my body because I have literally nothing else to offer, and I need the money to buy crack or something. _

He has his foot propped up on a small stool, so his legs are kind of open with his stuff just totally out there. Even though it's completely irrational, he swears he can feel each student's breath on his balls. And not in a fun, erotic way but in a I-have-a-boner-and-got-called-to-the-white-board way. And there's even people behind him, drawing his ass, and it feels like his stance is forcing his cheeks wide open. Like they can see inside of him.

It's kind of humiliating. And he wonders if this could possibly be that consequence Max was talking about.

But his body looks like it did in high school. Scrawny, but not emaciated. So he's probably not on crack. He has no scars except the one on his leg from breaking it in middle school. And on his right arm, the wolf tattoo that Cassidy drew on him in California is gone. Instead, he has a tattoo of a boy walking down a long, long road.

At first, Sean thinks the boy is Daniel. But then he realizes—no, somehow he _knows_—it's him. The boy represents Sean Diaz, walking by himself, all alone.

He's trying to puzzle out why he got this tattoo when the woman in the cape dress announces, "Okay, people, that's class for today! Thank you, Mr. Diaz, for being our subject. Everyone's final projects are due before you leave for holiday break!"

The students shove their art supplies into their bags, and Sean hastily shoves himself into the robe hanging over a chair at the side of the stage. As he's tying it around himself, he makes eye contact with the girl with the purple streak in her hair. She's pretty cute, and she's staring at him. He half-smiles and waves.

And she flips him off.

"Sarah is always going to be pissed at you," says a guy with a short, black mohawk and a lip ring. He's skinny, but his jeans and v-neck are still tight against his body. The guy waits for Sean to grab his sketchbook and walks with him to the privacy partition at the side of the room. Sean knows he knows this guy's name, but he can't quite remember it. It sits on the tip of his tongue, frustratingly out of reach.

"So how was your turn being on Dr. Yang's stage?" the guy asks.

"Kind of awkward," Sean says. "Embarrassing."

"Yeah, I thought it was pretty bullshit when you drunkenly insisted posing for Dr. Yang's class was a 'senior-year rite of passage.' I wasn't sure if it would be more awkward or less awkward since, like, half the class has seen your 'Phineas and Ferbs' before."

"I don't know what you mean, Toby," Sean says, surprised at how the name comes to him out of nowhere.

"Oh, please. You are a disaster, Sean Diaz. And you are too cute for girls to recognize what a mistake you are. I, however, totally know you are obviously not dating material. Speaking of, do you want to hook up tonight?"

"Excuse me?"

Toby hugs his backpack to his chest. "I was just thinking that instead of you getting high and texting me, all sad and pathetic at 1:00 AM, we just skip all of that and make a clear, intentional plan to have sex tonight. It's easier and you're less-likely to interrupt my _Twin Peaks_ rewatch, you know?"

"Uh, sure?" Sean says. Then he adds, "My place?" because it seems like something you would say if a classmate is casually offering to sleep with you.

"See you at 11:00, you walking disaster," Toby says and gives him a little wave before walking away.

Sean slides behind the partition, and, thankfully, a pair of jeans and a flannel that look like they fit him are hanging on the back of a chair. As he pulls them on, he digs around his brain, trying to uncover what his life is. _Okay. I am an art student at an art school in . . . I think Savannah, Georgia? I'm also apparently some kind of player and have had sex with at least two people in my class. Maybe more? I've really pissed off at least one girl I've hooked up with. And I am maybe some kind of chaotic bisexual?_

As far back as middle school, he would catch himself staring a little too long at older guys on the track team if they were running shirtless. Back in California, he felt a kind of vibe between him and Finn, like he wanted something to happen between them even though it didn't. He's always suspected he could be bisexual, but he never thought he would actually _act_ on it.

Which, messy sex life and embarrassing art class included, all of this is a million times better than being in prison. But art school, relationships—none of this is the reason he changed the past. Max's words keep playing in his head.

That the past doesn't want to change.

That there is a cost.

That he will only make things worse.

He picks up his sketchbook. Flips through it to see if it can shed some light onto how his life has changed.

Except everything in the sketchbook is exactly the same.

There's the drawing of the motel room Brody put them up in. The drawing he did at Claire and Stephen's house. The drawing, his last one, from the top of Mom's trailer in Away. There's even the shitty sketches he did in the hospital after he lost his eye and the note that Jacob left when he took Daniel to Haven Point.

Every single terrible thing that happened to him—it's still here.

"What the fuck?" Sean's heart sinks. Even though he's in an art school, even though his life seems very different, the past—his past—it's still there, unchanged.

There are more students filling the room, so he gathers his stuff. But he's barely out of the classroom door before he pulls his phone out. It doesn't look much nicer than the one he had in high school, and the screen is cracked, but the password is still the same. He finds the contact labeled _Dad_. His thumb hovers over it. Hitting call feels like when he was little, standing at the edge of a diving board for the first time.

What if Dad doesn't pick up?

What if the sketchbook is right?

What if nothing changed?

He takes a deep breath. Hits call. And says a little prayer. He doesn't believe in God, so he isn't sure who the prayer is to. But he mutters one anyway.

The phone rings once.

Then twice.

"Please pick up please pick up please pick up."

A third time.

"Please," he whispers. "Please let him be there. Please please _please_."

When it rings a fourth time, Sean knows he failed. He squeezes the phone so hard that the crack in the screen lengthens, just slightly. He went back in time and hurt his little brother, but he didn't actually save his father. Or maybe he did, but something happened later. Dad never really ate well, He could have had a heart attack. Or maybe he got crushed by something in his garage. Maybe he spontaneously combusted or got rabies from a dog or any other of the millions of stupid ways to die or—

Suddenly a voice on the phone says, "Hello? Sean?"

And Sean can barely speak. ". . . Dad?"

"Who else would it be? What's wrong, _mijo_?"

Sean covers his mouth, and his body shakes. He's already crying, and he turns, tries not to let the students passing in the hallway see, and presses his forehead against the brick wall so hard it makes indentations in his skin. He takes a deep breath, steadies his voice. "Hey, nothing's—nothing's wrong. I just wanted to call and say hey."

"Uh-huh. I'm at work, son, can you get to the point and tell me what you need?"

"I don't need anything. I just wanted to hear your voice. I—I missed you."

"Well, I miss you too, Sean. Did you total your car? Do you need money? You can tell me, you know. You don't have to butter me up first."

"No, Dad, it's nothing like that, really. I just wanted to talk. Maybe see if I can come home to visit soon."

"Are you not coming up for your Christmas break next week?

"Oh, yeah, you're right," Sean says. "I guess I forgot."

"You missed Thanksgiving. I know you're busy, but I don't think you should miss Christmas too."

"I won't, Dad. I promise. I'll be there."

"Okay," Dad says. "Well, I'm kind of in the middle of figuring out how someone drove their car in here when they haven't changed their oil for 100,000 miles."

"Yeah, of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you. But maybe we can Facetime tonight? Catch up on things?"

"I'll have to ask Daniel to help me set it up, but I would like that. If you're sure you're not too busy."

"I'm not, Dad. And Daniel should be there too. I'll talk to you both tonight. That will be good. And, Dad, one more thing."

"I knew it was something. Here it comes."

Sean takes a deep breath. Because more than the things that gave him scars, more than losing his eye, not being able to say this has hurt the worst: "I love you, Dad."

There's silence on the other end of the line. It's probably only a second, maybe two. But those seconds stretch for what feels like an hour.

"Well, I love you too, Sean," his dad says. "Even if you are being very suspicious right now."

It's Dad who hangs up because Sean can't do it. And when Dad does, Sean's legs suddenly feel so weak, like toothpicks holding up a cinder block, that he collapses to the floor because he is both laughing and crying at the same time. He hugs his legs, sobs like a total crazy person.

He did it. He actually fucking did it.

He saved his father. He changed the past.

Despite what the sketchbook says, Sean Diaz made everything exactly the way it is supposed to be.

A couple of students walk by, and one gestures at Sean, rocking and crying, and says, "I told you! This is why you don't take Dr. Yang's advanced life-drawing class. It totally breaks you, dude."

* * *

_so I never wrote a letter_

_i never took my true heart_

_i never wrote it down_

_so when the lights cut out_

_i was lost standing in the wilderness downtown_


	10. Episode Two: The Unknown - Chapter Two

Everything in Sean's brain is still a hazy, soupy mess, but there are details about his current life that he knows, even if he has no idea _how_ he knows them. Stuff that's muscle memory or routine is still there, relatively easy to pick up like grabbing your keys off a table. But more complicated things, like relationships or personal history, all of that is buried in a dense, Seattle fog.

Like, he knows the closest bathroom is just around the corner from Dr. Yang's class. And he knows that he's done with his classes for the day. And that he takes a longer way to get off campus so he can avoid this annoying preacher who shouts at all the "sinful" art students in the afternoon.

But he doesn't know what his relationship with Sarah was. It ended badly, obviously, but he isn't sure how or why.

The Savannah streets he walks down are familiar. He often gets coffee at this little shop that he passes on the way to campus. And he easily finds his apartment, recognizes the key that opens the door, and remembers that he shares it with two roommates.

But it takes seeing the roommates' names on the mail on the kitchen table to recall they are Pete and Olivia. He's pretty sure he's known them since freshman year, but he isn't sure how close they are. Pretty close, he thinks. At least, they get along okay.

He knows which room is his—it's the last one on the right, at the end of the hall. The room is . . . actually less nice than his childhood bedroom but still much better than a prison cell. He has a full-sized, unmade bed. A bookshelf with sketchbooks and some pretty dope graphic novels. And he has both a desk _and_ a drafting table. He always wanted a drafting table but never felt like he could ask his dad to shell out the money for one.

And even though he hasn't seen most of this stuff before, all of it feels _familiar_. He imagines standing in his room is like being Neo in the Matrix, downloading information straight into his brain. A pair of shoes with some athletic shorts thrown over them tells him that he still runs, usually pretty late at night when the streets are quieter and he needs to clear his head for his art. The drawing of the gross wizard pissing his robe that's pinned to wall was done by his friend . . . he snaps his fingers, trying to find the name . . . Diego. Diego is the one that drew it. And the photo of Sean drinking at a bar is . . . from his twenty-first birthday? Yeah, that's right. And the people around him are Pete, Olivia, Diego, Sarah, and Toby.

His laptop—beat to shit because it's the same one he had in high school—sits on his desk, and next to it is a Target name badge. He has a double shift tomorrow, but he's free tonight. But also on the desk is a pile of papers. He picks them up, sifts through them, and has trouble believing what they say.

They're cover letters. Addressed to Nickelodeon, Marvel Studios, Disney, and Adult Swim. He's sending out applications to intern for their animation departments. And he's also printed out an email from someone with an official Nickelodeon email address encouraging him to apply. The tone sounds friendly, like he might for real have a shot at working there, which, holy shit. He's at a place in his life where he could realistically work for the same people who made freaking _SpongeBob SquarePants? _

So this is where he ends up, if his dad never gets shot. He always knew it was unfair, having to leave Seattle, being on the run. But he never really had a sense of what had been taken from him. And now that he can see where his potential takes him, it actually cuts his heart.

This is what he was going to miss. That cliché, about how you don't know what you have until it's gone must work the other way—you don't know what's gone until you have it.

He sits down on his bed, and he hugs a pillow because he almost starts crying again.

It seems like his life in Savannah is really good. And the fog on it is lifting, very slowly, and he can feel the puzzle coming together. But it's like it's only coming together at the edges.

There's holes. Big ones.

Like, he can't remember the last time he saw Dad or Daniel. Or when he talked to either of them before his phone call today. There are a couple of pictures of Sean and Dad on his walls, but there's only one with Daniel—it's a picture with their Dad at Sean's high school graduation.

He kicks off his shoes and pulls his feet onto the bed, and he goes through his text messages. There's a bunch from classmates and college friends. Dumb, inside jokes that make him laugh, even if he isn't sure why they are funny. But he has to go pretty far down before he finds a message chain from Daniel. It was about a month ago. Sean is saying he isn't able to come home for Thanksgiving, and Daniel asks if Sean is for certain dealing with Dad's Christmas present. And Sean says that he is.

Sean fires off a text: _Hey bro_

Daniel sends one back: _what_

_what's up?_

_at school what do you want_

_just thinking of you i can't wait to see you next week_

_whatever please don't text me when you're high_

Sean chuckles. Daniel's still funny. But then he rereads the messages. They haven't texted each other in a month, and Daniel didn't seem to say anything when Sean told him he wasn't coming home for Thanksgiving.

Suddenly, "please don't text me when you're high" doesn't seem like a joke.

His last text message to Lyla is even harder to find. Lyla was the only person he called when they were on the run. And he called her again at Claire and Stephen's house, which he knew was a mistake, but he had to talk to her. She is fiercely supportive, in a way that's almost frightening. In his timeline, Lyla has gone to UCLA to study whatever it is you study when you want to learn about social justice. She stops by to see him whenever she is back in Washington. And in some ways, her visits are even better than Daniel's because she has no reason to bullshit him.

He loves her. He's always loved her. His bestie. His partner in crime.

But when he finally finds their last text message, it's from over a year ago. Sean texted her _Happy birthday!_

And Lyla never replied.

# # #

For some reason, all of his homework and final projects are right there on the surface of his brain. And all the stress that comes with them. In his desk drawer, he finds a bottle of Bupropion, which is how he learns he has diagnosed anxiety. So that's cool.

And even though he has a million things to do in this new life and this is the only night he has off for six days _and_ finals are next week, it's also the first time in years that he hasn't been locked behind concrete and steel bars. He's twenty-two and free and in a city near the coast. It's a few hours before his Facetime with Dad or his hang out with Toby, and Google Maps tells him that the beach is only thirty minutes away.

He knows he _shouldn't_, but he also knows that he totally _should_.

His car is parked up the block. And it hits him how weird it is that he can remember this but not the last time he saw his little brother. But even though he knows about his car somewhere in the haze of his brain, he's still shocked when he sees it.

It's not just a car. It's _the_ car. The one his dad was fixing for him. The one he never got.

He sits down in it, hugs the steering wheel, and breathes it in. It reeks of weed, and there's a coffee stain on the floorboard. But it is definitely, 100% the beaten down husk that he sat in when he was fifteen, pretended to drive when it barely ran. The car that he was skeptical about but trusted his dad when his father said that he could get it running again.

When he sticks the key in the ignition, even though he knows it runs, he's still caught off guard when the engine rumbles to life. Dad really came through with it. And Sean almost takes a picture, sends it to his father with the words _Thank You_. But he reminds himself that he got this gift years ago. It's new to him, but it's not actually new.

But still, his vision a little blurry, he pulls off down the street, driving east.

It's December in Georgia, so most people are bundled up in long sleeves and hoodies. But winter in the South is nothing for someone who grew up in Seattle, so Sean walks the beach barefoot, shoes in his hands, and his pants-legs rolled up, even as the breeze cuts through his flannel like a series of small needles.

For the past five years, his entire life has been a small, 10'x10' cell that he shared with another adult person. All of this open air. All of this freedom. It's actually a little terrifying. And overwhelming. His heart skips beats, and there's a tingling panic where his spine meets his skull. He's out here. He could be attacked from any side. An instinct says he should curl up and hide.

But also . . . it's wonderful. It's exhilarating. It's everything he imagined Puertos Lobos would be on those nights when he cried himself to sleep, quietly so Daniel wouldn't hear.

He walks to the edge of the beach, and his feet sink into the wet sand. The water laps at his ankles, cold as ice, but he stares out into the horizon long past the point that his toes have grown numb. The world, the sky—it's so wide and wild and free.

There are no walls.

He cocks his head back, and it doesn't matter if people stare—he howls a howl of freedom.


	11. Episode Two: The Unknown - Chapter Three

On the way to the beach, Sean's soundtrack was the engine and his sifting memories.

On the way back, he cranks _Everything is Borrowed_ by The Streets on Spotify. It's the first time he's heard music he has chosen, music he actually _likes_, in years. He drums on the steering wheel like a maniac, so hard that a woman in a minivan glares at him.

He just grins at her and waves. Because he's having an awesome day. Everyone else should be having an awesome day, too.

Back at the apartment, Sean takes his first hot and private shower in half a decade, and he savors the way the steam fills the room, the way the body wash smells musky and doesn't immediately dry out his skin, and how, if he turns around, he won't accidentally brush someone and get his ass beat. He also discovers his ear piercings, and is fascinated by them. He has plugs in, and they've been gauged enough that he can stick his pinkies through the holes.

And he's just standing under the shower head, watching his feet turn red and fingering his ears when his roommate Olivia pounds on the door. "Come on, bro, people need to shit around here!"

He quickly dries off with a towel that is both fluffy and free of holes. He pulls on a pair of green boxers which fit, are actually soft, and don't feel like they're made out of straw. He offers Olivia a weak apology as she fans her way into the steam. "Dude," she says, "let's keep the jerking off confined to your bedroom, okay?"

"I wasn't . . ." Sean starts. But it hits him—he _could have_. In prison, of course he found ways to jerk off. However, they were quick and quiet and always unsatisfying. But here, he can masturbate in private because he actually has _privacy_, and it seems like such a stupid thing to be excited about, but it's still another point in the whole "Prison Sucks and Max Was Wrong" column.

After grabbing a tank top from his room, he heads to the kitchen and rummages through the fridge and cabinets. Their apartment has an absurd amount of beer—most of it hoppy because, he remembers, Pete is exclusively into gross beer—but not a ton of food. So he makes a bowl of ramen, which he takes back to his room. He eats it as he waits to Facetime his dad, and it is the best meal he has had in five years.

When Dad texts that he's ready, it still takes another ten minutes to actually set things up. Dad keeps accidentally hanging up when Sean calls him. Dad is great with engines and moving parts. He's less great with his cell phone.

Finally, Dad's face shows up on the screen.

And—it's Dad.

He looks older, sure. He has let his stubble grow into an actual beard, and there's gray in both it and in his hair. He has more lines on his face than Sean remembers. But it's still the face of the man who let Sean lie in his bed when he was scared. The man who told him stories when he couldn't sleep.

The face that Sean last saw planted on the ground after a cop's bullet tore through his father's chest.

Sean clears his throat. Turns away so he can wipe his eyes.

"You look good," Dad says. "Still don't like the ear piercings, though."

"I think they're pretty cool," Sean says.

"I know," Dad says. "So tell me, how is school?"

"Heh, what's to tell?" Sean still hasn't sorted all of the details of his life. So he reaches for what he has. "I, uh, posed for my life model class today. Everyone saw me naked."

"Are you sure this was for a class and not some wild party, my son?"

"Dad, come on. It was for class."

"Well, I'm sure everyone was very impressed with the masculine Diaz boy."

"Oh yeah, everyone kept resharpening their pencils to get all of my muscles just right."

.

"Funny. I wouldn't think it would be so hard to draw someone so scrawny. Do they make you pose naked at this school? I know a lawyer who brings his car to my garage, and we might have quite the profitable lawsuit on our hands, if you know what I mean."

Sean chuckles. "It's not like that." And it's weird, but his reasons for posing in Dr. Yang's class suddenly pop into his head. "It was kind of part drunken dare with my friends and me trying to get some extra cash for whatever comes after graduation. Have I, uh . . . did I tell you I might have a real shot at working at Nickelodeon?"

"You did," Dad says with a smile. "And you told me not to make a big deal out of it and not to tell anyone, so I've only mentioned my big shot animator son to maybe fifteen or twenty people."

Sean blushes. But also smiles. It's not _really_ that big of a deal. He knows he would be the absolute lowest person on the totem pole. It sounds much cooler than it actually is. But his dad is proud of him and that's pretty awesome.

He has missed his dad being proud of him.

"How have you been, Dad?"

His father talks about the garage and the annoying customer who didn't understand that not putting oil in your car would fuck it up. He has a pretty funny story about Juan, a guy who works for him, and mostly it's just normal, inane stuff. But it's good to hear the normal, inane stuff. That stuff feels normal.

"But enough about your _padre_," Dad says. "How have you been?"

"Good," Sean says. "Yeah. I'm good."

"That's one answer," Dad says. "But how are you_ really_, Sean?"

Sean lowers his head. He's not in trouble, but that question has the same tone, the same seriousness from when he was a kid hiding some big fuck up. It's a tone that says his dad expects a real answer, not a bullshit one. Sean's free hand picks at one of his toes, which is gross, he hates when Daniel does it, but he's so lost in how to answer Dad's question that he doesn't notice he's doing it. Finally, he sighs. "Life has been really . . . hard . . . lately. And today was the first day in a long time that didn't feel hard. It's the first time where I thought, 'Hey, things might be okay.'"

"Of course they will be okay. You are smart. And strong. And responsible. You can handle anything life throws at you, Sean."

"It's . . . real good to hear you say that." Sean sniffles. Then wipes his nose on the back of his arm. It leaves a trail of snot over his tattoo of the lonely boy, so he has to set the phone down to grab a tissue to wipe it off. "So, uh, where's Daniel?"

"He's in his room. He came home with a black eye."

"Wait-what?"

"He wouldn't tell me what happened," Dad says, shrugging. "He only said that it didn't happen at school and that he didn't want to talk about it. I know there is a senior that picks on him, and I suspect Daniel doesn't want to talk to me about it because he knows I will march right down to that school and raise hell until whoever is hurting my son gets torn a new one. Or I will tear that kid a new one myself. Your dad still has a couple of moves left from his boxing days."

"Who could ever pick on Daniel?" Sean says. "He's the coolest, most likeable, friendliest kid."

"Well, he doesn't believe his _papá_ saying that he's cool," Dad says. "He's not as outgoing as he used to be. But, you know, growing up is hard. Being a teenager—you feel like all of your decisions are these huge things, like everything is riding on your shoulders. And if you make one mistake, the world feels like it will end."

"Yeah," Sean says. "I know exactly what that's like."

Sean's head has been swirling with his new life all day, but suddenly the old one kicks open the door. All of those bad memories, they are still there, still with him. And in the unchanged sketchbook. He remembers the way the plastic felt on his wrists when he was tied up at the gas station. How his heart plunged into his stomach when he saw Daniel get shot. Just how many mornings he didn't want to wake up because he was too scared to open his eyes.

He isn't sure how long he sits there, silently playing with his big toe before he hears, "It doesn't though."

"What?" Sean says.

"The world," Dad says. "It doesn't end because of a mistake you made when you were a kid."

"Yeah," Sean stammers, nodding. "I—I hear you, Dad."

"Sean, seriously," Dad says. "What is going on? You've barely texted in the past month, and you even sounded like you were on the fence about coming home for Christmas. But today you call me out of nowhere, which I appreciate, I really do, but it makes me concerned. Whatever is going on, you can tell me, okay?"

"It's nothing. Nothing worth talking about. I just feel like I haven't seen you in . . . a long time. And . . . I missed you," Sean says quietly. "_Te quiero, papito._"

"My son, you haven't called me '_papito'_ since you were a little boy."

"Heh. Yeah. I feel like I haven't seen you in that long."

And Dad chews on his lip. On the tiny phone screen, Dad's brow furrows. It's what happens when he is carefully considering his words. Sometimes it's because he can't quite find the English to say what he wants. But most times Sean has seen it is because he has put his dad in a rough spot, like he has given his dad a choice between being angry or praising his son for being honest about doing something bad. Finally, Dad just says gently, "_Te quiero también, _Sean_. Te quiero mucho, mijo. Siempre. Nada puede cambiar eso._"

"_Gracias_ _por decirlo." _ Sean takes a deep breath and shudders. And suddenly, more time than he thought has passed with him sitting there, in silence. With his dad just watching him, quietly, giving him space through the phone. "Uh, Dad, can I ask you something? It's something lame."

"Getting asked 'something lame' is half of being a parent. It is literally half the questions you have asked me in your life. I am sorry if that bursts any of your bubbles."

"Can you, uh, tell me a story? Like you did when I was a little kid? I know it sounds stupid, I just—I guess I'm just homesick right now."

His dad is quiet. It's a weird request, and Sean knows it. And he can see it, even more than before. Dad's wheels are turning. He's trying to figure out what's wrong. He's trying to puzzle out just how big Sean has fucked up that he needs his dad to say "I love you, _mijo_" and tell him stories but not ask any questions about it. And it must sound shady as shit that Sean can't give him an explanation or even something that sounds like a plausible lie.

"Never mind," Sean says. "It's—it's dumb. I'm grown up. I'm an adult. I shouldn't ask for a story."

"But," Dad asks, "do you need a story?"

"Nah, I'm good." Sean hesitates. Rubs his eyes. Then nods. "Yeah, Dad. Actually, I do. I need a story."

"Okay then," Dad says. And he starts in with a story about a handsome wolf father and his two handsome wolf sons who live in a lair far from their ancient homeland. And in the story, the wolves are happy. And the wolf sons are loved so much by their father that they always feel safe, so that even when bad things do happen, in the end, everything turns out okay.

And Sean listens, hugging his knees to his chest, like he did when he was a little boy. Like he did even before his mom left. Like he did before he knew the world wasn't only the good things in it.


	12. Episode Two: The Unknown - Chapter Four

After his dad hangs up, Sean texts his brother: _Hey dad says you have a black eye. Anything you want to talk about?_

Daniel sends back: _No._

_That's okay. I just want you to know I'm here for you enano_

_Don't call me that. I'll tell dad thanks for making you check in tho_

# # #

Sean stares at his text message from Daniel for a long time. Part of him wants to text back, to insist that Dad didn't make him check in, to tell his little brother that he _does_ care about him.

But something inside him, the part of him that's always been in this timeline, says that he shouldn't.

Instead, Sean sits on his bed and flips through the sketchbook, trying to make sense of why nothing changed. None of this stuff happened. He changed the past, clearly he did. The proof is even written on his skin in the lonely boy tattoo. Is it really harder to erase ink from paper than it is from skin? Why is all of this awful shit still here?

But he is in a better life. He is in his bedroom, in his apartment. He has success and stability and he just got to talk to his dad. So why is he staring at the pages of his old life? The one he risked fucking up the universe to leave behind?

Maybe it's just that it's familiar. He has lived with the constant noise of being frightened and in danger for, what, six years? Now the safety and the quiet of his apartment is the thing that is unfamiliar and scary. Or maybe he's asking the pages for answers. What happened to his friendship with Lyla? How could they survive him going to prison but not him going to college? And what happened with Daniel? Sean's little brother is the most important person in his life, so why do they seem so distant here?

Sean is sitting on his bed rereading an entry about Finn, (and, after noticing how much detail he put into Finn's eyes, he wonders if sixteen-year-old Sean's crush was super obvious to everyone) when there's a knock. Before Sean can say anything, Toby lets himself inside and closes the door behind him.

"Pete let me in," Toby says, "but Olivia said I should just go home because apparently you already took care of yourself?"

"She's just pissed that I took an hour-long shower," Sean says.

"Ah, getting extra clean for me." Toby's lip curls into a smile, the piercing in it rises slightly, and it makes a kind of fluttery feeling in Sean's chest. It's cute in a way that makes Sean smile on reflex. Toby made it sound like they were just hooking up, like there's nothing _really_ between them, but as Toby kicks off his shoes and socks and climbs into the bed, Sean suspects he might have deeper feelings for this guy than he lets on.

Sean sets his sketchbook on his windowsill, and when he turns back, Toby catches his mouth in a kiss. It's surprising, both in its sudden straight-forwardness and the way Toby's lips are cooler than the piercing.

And it is the first time that Sean has been touched, really touched, in years. Not just sexually but touched at all. Sure, he has hugged his brother and his mom and Lyla and his grandparents, but that has all been in prison. There's a barrier. There are guards who will yell if it goes on too long. There's always someone watching. You can't be vulnerable. You can't . . . be held. And here, in his bed in Savannah, Toby is holding his face, really holding him, and Sean is so starved for human contact that just a crumb of compassion actually tears him up.

But then Toby pulls their hips together, and it's like a million lights explode in Sean's body. All of his pent up desires, repressed and unsatisfied for years, flow through him. He becomes hyper aware of the bare skin of their arms touching. Of their bare feet on top of each other. He rolls on top of Toby, kisses him so deeply Sean has to remind himself to breathe.

But then, just as Toby's breathing changes, Sean stops. He pulls away.

"Is something wrong?" Toby asks.

And Sean blinks. He has only had sex one time and with one person, and he was . . . bad at it. He was sixteen-years-old. It was with Cassidy in a tent in California. The build up to it was awesome, swimming naked together in the lake. Kissing. But when they went back to her tent it was just . . . short. And awkward. He fumbled and didn't fit and it wasn't fun. It was humiliating, and she tried to act like it was okay, but deep down, she was disappointed. She said she wasn't, but it _felt_ like she was. She told him he would get better with practice . . . but he has never had the chance to practice.

So he wants to be with Toby. He really, _really_ wants to be with Toby. But the anxiety of being bad is too much, and how can he explain any of this without sounding insane?

"Sean?" Toby says beneath him. "Hey, are you okay?"

"I just . . . I know this sounds weird, but you know how you're like, nervous, during your first time? I kind of feel like that."

"I know for a fact this is not your first time, Sean Diaz," Toby says with a grin.

"I'm being dumb. I'm sorry," Sean says. "Maybe we shouldn't do this tonight."

"Hey," Toby says, touching him on the cheek. It's gentle, more affectionate than the touch of someone who is just "hooking up" with you. "It's okay. If this is some, weird, ego thing, just know you are perfectly cromulent at this. We can go slow if you want. I'll let you control the pace. Just trust yourself. Okay?"

Sean nods. "Okay."

* * *

**Soundtrack: "Cape Canaveral" **

**by Conor Oberst**

* * *

Toby's fingers interlace behind Sean's neck, and he kisses Sean gently on the lips. And Sean tries to get out of his head. Because Toby has a point. Even though in his old life Sean never got to practice, in this life he has. So he tries to trust himself, trust that his body knows what it's doing.

He kisses Toby on the cheek. Then near the ear. Toby inhales deeply, and Sean reaches under his shirt, sets his hand on Toby's bare chest. And as Sean explores the map of Toby's thin body, memories click into place. In class, Toby made it sound like Sean was some sort of man whore, but that isn't exactly true. He _is_ kind of a makeout slut. Sean has this sense that he will—and has—kissed anybody when he's drunk, but the number of people he's had sex with is five.

Sean tugs at the collar of Toby's shirt, so he can kiss the spot where Toby's neck meets the collarbone. And he remembers this is where he kissed Jenn, who was his first, when they had sex in high school. It wasn't at the party. He didn't get to go to that because Dad grounded him. But later, he and Jenn hung out, and while Dad was at work during Thanksgiving break, they did it quietly in Sean's bedroom. On the floor, actually, because Sean was worried the bed would make too much noise. It was quick and embarrassing, and Daniel almost walked in on them.

The hand Sean rests on Toby's chest runs down the guy's side, around his thighs, and over the bulge that is growing beneath the denim of Toby's jeans, and Sean remembers that after graduation, they were all drinking at Adam's house when he and Ellery kissed. They were really, really drunk, so nothing stopped their hands from wandering. Or their mouths. When they were done, Ellery insisted that he wasn't into guys, so they agreed not to do it again, which was disappointing. "It's funny," Ellery said, as he put on his pants. "I always thought you and Lyla would be the two from our friend group that would hook up."

Sean grabs the bottom of Toby's shirt and pulls it off. He starts at Toby's neck, then kisses down Toby's chest, over the patchy hair between Toby's nipples. Toby's ribs press against his skin with each breath, and when Sean kisses near Toby's bellybutton, he remembers kissing Maddie here as well. She was a girl Sean met his first week of college. One time, she did this thing with her finger that Sean was skeptical about but ended up being super into. So that was cool. They hooked up four or five times before she got bored with him.

Sean raises his arms so Toby can pull his tanktop over his head. And something about the skin of their bellies touching—it's sexy, sure—but the closeness Sean feels as their chests touch when they kiss, the skin to skin contact, it's intimate. Comforting.

Another reminder that there are no walls here.

Sean's lips spend some time in the space below Toby's bellybutton before his fingers unbutton Toby's jeans. Toby lifts his hips so Sean can slide the jeans off, and Sean knows he felt the excitement of this moment with Sarah more times than he could count.

But that's all he can remember about Sarah.

It is like there is ink spilled on her page. For some reason, his brain won't let him remember Sarah.

Sean freezes.

A lot of his memories are hazy. But he and Sarah seemed to have a for-real relationship. Why can he remember all of these other things but not her?

But then he feels Toby's hand inside his boxers, he feels Toby's fingers wrap around him. And then Toby slides Sean's boxers off, so Sean pulls Toby's off him. And he remembers that Toby is right. This is definitely not their first time.

Sean kisses the insides of Toby's thighs, feels Toby's hands on his back guiding his head gently, and Sean knows he can trust his body to know what to do.

# # #

After Sean climaxes, Toby raises his head and laughs. "Dude, you have roommates. You have got to be _much_ quieter."

A warm, peaceful bliss sits on Sean's body, just beneath the thin layer of sweat. He lies there, head swimming, not really sure how to process feeling this good. He reaches for Toby's hands. Their fingers intertwine, and Sean pulls him down for a kiss. One long enough that their bodies start to melt together.

"Hold up." Toby pulls away. "Dude, since when do you kiss me when we're done?"

"Uh, why wouldn't I?" Sean says. "That felt really good."

"Boundaries, man. You can't start catching feelings for me," Toby says, rolling off him. "I cannot be another Sean Diaz Dating Disaster."

That pops the nice bubble that has formed around Sean, brings him back to this world where his best friend and his brother don't talk to him. Where there is some girl named Sarah that he apparently wronged so badly that he actively tries to forget her.

Toby reaches into Sean's nightstand, where there is a bag of pot, a couple of rolled joints, a lighter, and the same pipe Sean has had since high school. After Toby lights up one of the joints, Sean takes the lighter from him.

It's silver. Metal. And has a crest with a wolf, an anchor, and a conquistador. On it are etched the words _Puerto Lobos_. Much of it is worn smooth, first from Dad and then Sean holding it over the years. How many times did he clutch this lighter, flipping it open and closed when he was nervous, even before his dad got shot? How many more times when it was all he had left of his father? He wonders if he still sits in the dark when things feel heavy, watching the flame dance above his thumb.

Toby passes Sean the joint, and Sean takes a drag. "Did I ever tell you this was my dad's lighter? It came all the way from where he grew up in Mexico."

"Your dad gave you a lighter?" Toby says, taking the joint back. "When you quit smoking cigarettes, you mentioned your dad was going to be really happy about it."

"Well, he didn't _give_ it to me so much as I took it when I was fourteen." Sean flicks the lighter open and close. "He's a good dude. It must have been real scary for him to come up here, not knowing anyone. And then he ended up having to raise two kids on his own. He's the best person I know. My life . . . would probably fall apart without him."

"Oh yeah, I forget you have a brother," Toby says, a cloud of smoke billowing from his lungs. "Denny? Dale?"

"Daniel," Sean says. "He's . . . a real cool kid."

"I think this is the most you have talked about your family without someone badgering you about it."

Sean takes the joint, takes a drag, and tries to hold the smoke in his lungs as long as possible. "Can I ask you something? It's gonna sound self-centered, but . . . uh, what do people think of me?"

"That you're a little self-centered," Toby laughs, taking the joint back. "But that you're a good artist. And, honestly, I think most people are just jealous that so many people are interested in your stuff. You are fun to hang out with. And you are, like, _so_ adorable when you are drunk." Toby boops him on the nose.

"Anything else? Like, what do _you_ think of me?"

"I think you're pretty cool. I wouldn't be smoking a joint, naked in your bed if I didn't think you were cool."

"But, like . . ." Sean squeezes the lighter with one hand and rubs his shoulder with the other. "Like, why are you so insistent that we can't date?"

"Come on, man," Toby says, offering Sean the chance to finish the joint. Sean shakes his head. "Let's not bring the vibe down."

"It's an honest question. I promise I won't get mad."

Toby sighs. "I think you're not really dependable. Not with work, but with people. You bounce when things get complicated. And you hate being trapped. I really like hanging out with you, and I really like having sex with you. But sometimes I feel shitty, us doing this after what you did to Sarah. She told me she was cool with it, but I still feel like I'm stabbing her in the back. And I don't want to go through what she did. I don't want to be something that makes you feel trapped, so that you freak out. You were . . . kind of a real dick to her."

Sean has no idea _what_ he did, but, somehow, he knows that Toby is right. "I was, wasn't I?"

"Of course. Look, here's a question for you. How could you date someone for six months then just stop talking to her like that?"

Sean closes his eyes. His brain feels floaty, with the pot and his memories rewriting themselves, but he focuses on Sarah, tries to picture the face of the girl who flipped him off in the life-drawing class. He stares at the inkblot in his memory and wills it to clear up.

He and Sarah, they were dating. Like, for-real dating. And they were pretty happy, even talking about moving in together and getting a dog, but she didn't seem like "the one," and rather than have the hard conversation about it, Sean just kind of . . . acted like a dick and pissed her off and ignored her. Because that seemed easier, somehow.

And she sent him like a million text messages and called him a million times, asking if they could at least talk about things. Asking if he could just give her a reason why or at least clarify that things were really over.

And he ignored them all. Because he was scared. And stupid.

And a dick.

Sean rolls over onto his side, towards the window and away from Toby, and he hugs his dad's lighter to his chest.

"Dude, Sean, are you okay?" Toby asks.

"I was an asshole," Sean mutters.

"Yeah, you were."

"Toby, I don't think I just acted like an asshole. I think I _am_ an asshole."

Sean sighs and presses the lighter against his forehead. He stares at the sketchbook on the windowsill, with all the bad stuff on its pages. And he tries not to, but his body trembles. And then he feels Toby, who is apparently 100% right about keeping a distance, wrap his arms around him, holding him while he shakes.

Because Sean is pretty sure that it's not just Sarah he has been an asshole to.

* * *

_all these changes are going to fill your mind_

_like the citrus glow off the old orange grove_

_or the red rocket blaze over cape canaveral_

_it's been a nightmare to me_

_some 1980s grief_

_gives me parachute dreams_

_like old war movies_

_while the universe was drawn_

_perfect circles form infinity_


	13. Episode Two: The Unknown - Chapter Five

As the week goes on, Sean is pretty sure he figures out his life in Savannah. Like, 85% sure. Apparently, he kept journaling in this timeline, so the sketchbooks on his bookshelf help to fill in a lot of gaps like how he met Toby, when he moved in with Pete and Olivia, and even what he's working on in his art classes.

They still don't answer much about his life in Seattle, though.

There's one book that he started senior year, and it's filled with details about Adam, Eric, Ellery, and Lyla. Even Jenn. It seems like they got along like always, even through the summer after senior year.

Then they just disappear from his journals without an explanation.

Daniel isn't really mentioned at all.

He shows up around holidays, like the Fourth of July or Christmas. And there's a ski trip they went on the summer after Sean's freshman year of art school. There's a caricature of a middle-school-aged Daniel, pouting, that Past Sean captioned: _Twelve-year-olds are so annoying. And junior high really needs a class about deodorant. _

Sean calls or texts his father every day, and Dad is always happy to talk. When Sean texts Daniel, though, Daniel always acts annoyed, if he responds at all. They don't have each other on Snapchat. And while Sean has two Instagrams—one for his art with 5,000 followers and a personal one with 350—his brother follows neither of them.

And Daniel's own Instagram is private.

He remembers what Daniel said on that day just before Halloween. Daniel was nine and Sean was sixteen, but the moment happened not even a week ago for Sean: _I have a bad brother_. It makes Sean sick to think about, but that has to be it. He tackled Daniel like a psychopath. Daniel must have been so hurt and so scared that Daniel learned he couldn't trust his brother, and everything got worse from there.

And it's all Sean's fault.

But still, Sean is able to recognize all of his coworkers. He understands most of his relationships with his classmates and can pick out the ones he has drunkenly kissed (it's . . . more than he's proud of), and he gets it together enough that he gets _A's_ in most of his classes for the semester.

When winter break finally starts, Sean gets up at dawn to hop on a plane to Seattle. He muddles through crowds and delays, but finally he lands at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. As he walks out the doors, backpack over his shoulders, it takes him a moment to find his dad's car in the crowd of vehicles picking up travelers.

Even though they have talked every day for a week, there is something about seeing Dad waving at him that underlines that it's real. That Dad is actually alive. Sean jogs, pushes through a young couple, and runs straight into his father's open arms.

It's the first time he has hugged his dad in years, something he thought he would never do again. And he hugs his father so tightly the man's bones pop.

"Easy, Sean," Dad says. "Your father is not as young as he used to be."

So Sean lightens up, but he doesn't let go. His dad smells like bad aftershave and motor oil, just the way he's supposed to. And, though they are the same height, Dad feels so much bigger than him, and Dad's arms around him make Sean feel safe. Like the sketchbook that he brought with him is lying, like all of that bad shit really never happened.

Like all of that bad stuff can't hurt him now.

When Sean pulls away, he has to wipe his eyes. And when his vision focuses, he realizes his dad is staring at him. It's a strange, steady look, like Dad is standing across from someone he met years ago but can't remember when or where. "Are you okay, _mijo_?"

"I swear, Dad," Sean says, "My car is fine. My rent is paid. My grades are good. I am not going drop some bad news on you."

"No, no, I mean—" Sean feels his dad's hand on the back of his head. It sort of tussles his hair. "Eh, it's nothing, I'm sure. Let's go home."

"Yeah," Sean says with a smile. "Let's go home."

# # #

They drive through familiar streets to their neighborhood, and Sean's teeth dig into his lip so he does not ask his father to stop at the dozens of places he thought he would never see again. Like at the skatepark where he and Lyla used to hang out. Or at the ice cream shop where Daniel ate so much banana split that he threw up on Dad. Heck, even the Target where Sean and his friends would dick around, bored on the weekends is something he feels overpowering nostalgia for.

When they get to the house, Sean's dad parks the car in the driveway. They have a garage, but it seems to always be for work, never sheltering their car, which always got annoying when it snowed. After his dad cuts off the engine, Sean just sits there, staring up at the house that he didn't even get to say goodbye to six years ago. Sure, he time-traveled here just last week, but he was so focused on saving his dad, changing his future, that he didn't really get to savor it.

But now, even the airplane engines overhead sound like a comforting, familiar song.

He feels Dad's hand on his shoulder. "Sean, do you need a minute?"

"I'm fine," Sean says. "I just feel like . . . it's been a too long since I have come home."

"You know, even if you go far away after school, this will always be your home. You can always come back here."

Sean smiles. "I can, can't I?"

They go through the garage, then upstairs to the living room. One of the _X-Men_ movies plays on the television. A Christmas tree is set up by the window.

And over in the kitchen, standing in front of the fridge, is Daniel.

His hair, a little shaggier, is wet and stuck to his head, and a towel is wrapped around his waist. His back is to them, and his bony shoulder blades poke against his skin. He is drinking orange juice straight from the bottle.

"Well, well, look who finally decided to start his day at . . ." Dad glances at his watch ". . . 7:14 at night. Are we really so poor that you can't use a glass, _mijo_?"

Daniel jumps. He turns to them, eyes big that he's gotten caught. He drags his hand across his mouth, wiping pulp off his lips, and he slowly puts the bottle back, like it's possible to hide the evidence of his crime.

And even though Sean knows their relationship is different here, it's still Daniel, it's still his little brother, and Sean still loves him. So he sets his backpack on the ground, takes the few steps into the kitchen, and hugs the fifteen-year-old so tightly that the kid's toes are no longer touching the ground. "Hey, bro. I missed you so, so much."

"Okay?" Daniel says as Sean sets him down. Daniel kind of pats him on the shoulder. "I missed you too, I guess?"

Sean rests his hands on Daniel's shoulders, looks his brother over. Daniel has a fading bruise under his left eye, but other than that, he looks good. Healthy. And under Sean's thumb, he notices that the skin of Daniel's right shoulder is smooth, unblemished. In the other reality, sometimes Daniel wears tank tops when he visits in the summer, and the scar from a bullet at the border always stares at Sean, reminding him that he didn't do such a great job protecting his brother.

But there's no scar here.

Because Daniel never needed Sean to protect him.

And, though Daniel doesn't realize it, this is the first time they have been together in years without a prison, without walls. At last, the wolf brothers reunited and free.

Sean pulls Daniel into another hug. Daniel smells like soap, and the dampness of his hair seeps into Sean's. But Sean squeezes his eyes shut, tries to force himself to not shake. Even though there are a million things he wants to say to his brother, he knows that most of them won't make sense. So he keeps them inside, trying to say them by squeezing his brother tighter and tighter.

"Okay, bro, this is way more affection than I want when I'm not wearing pants," Daniel says trying to push Sean back. "Dad, your weird older son is being really weird."

"Sean has been gone a long time," Dad says. "He just misses his _familia_. You will understand, Daniel, when you finally leave your home."

# # #

In a crock-pot on the kitchen counter, Dad has made chili. So after Daniel puts some clothes on, they eat dinner. And, honestly, Dad's chili is only a step above prison food, but it tastes like home, so Sean asks for more. Daniel eats his chili in silence, not saying much even to Dad. And when Sean asks if his little brother wants to play some _Guitar Fighter_, the kid just shrugs. When they are finished eating, Daniel helps with the dishes, then sulks off to his room without a word.

"I think something is up," Dad says, leaning on the kitchen counter. "Or maybe he is just fifteen. I am not sure."

"He's a good kid," Sean says, staring at Daniel's closed bedroom door. "He'll be alright."

But . . . why _isn't_ he alright?

Sean has seen Daniel go through the loss of their father, kidnapping, and learning he has superpowers. In that other life, Daniel went through more trauma and bullshit by the age of ten than most people undergo in their entire lives. And Daniel still managed to grow into a relatively happy, well-adjusted fifteen-year-old.

But here, where Daniel's life is objectively _better_, he seems like he's not dealing with things as well. Maybe being fifteen is just harder than Sean remembers.

However, there is a question that has been hanging over Sean's head for the past week. One that he has been trying to ignore because he does not want to think about the implications of it. But seeing Daniel withdrawn, like he's hiding something, brings the question to the front—does Daniel know about his powers?

They never activated until their dad got shot, so maybe he doesn't even have them in this reality. But if Daniel were hiding them, it would explain why Sean's upbeat, goofy brother turned into this mopey kid who is sullen and sulky even for a teen.

Keeping a secret like that, all on his own—it would feel lonely, isolating.

But . . . it wasn't just Dad dying that changed everything. It was also Daniel's powers that forced them to run. Daniel's powers caused a lot of problems, and if Daniel is struggling with them on his own, then that could mean all sorts of bad things.

Sean is sitting at their kitchen counter, dwelling on this with his head on his hand when his dad opens the refrigerator. Dad pulls out two beers, and he offers one to Sean. For a moment, Sean stares at it, like it's a test. Last time he was here, he was sneaking beer from the fridge and spraying his clothes with Febreeze to hide the smell of cigarettes and pot.

But he isn't sixteen anymore. He's twenty-two, well past the legal drinking age. So he takes the can, which is cool against his hand, and he and his dad sit down together on the couch. Dad finds one of the _Fast and the Furious_ movies on TV, which is like his superpower, always finding one of these when he turns the TV on.

They clink their cans together, and with his first sip, it hits Sean that it is Christmas, and he is home, and even if his little brother is acting weird, Sean is having a beer with his dad.

And that is pretty awesome.

Life is awesome.

It's awesome to watch a movie he's seen a dozen times with his dad.

"So I appreciate all of the time you have made lately to talk to your old man," Dad says. "And that you are spending a whole week here at Christmas when I know you are busy."

"Dad, being here, drinking a beer with my old man—I can say, with no exaggeration, that this is the best thing to happen to me all year."

They have finished their first round, so Dad takes their cans to drop in the recycling bin. He comes back with fresh beers, which they clink together again. Then he says, "What is going on with you, _mijo_?"

"Dad, come on, I'm good. I'm fine."

"Are you? Really?"

"Yeah, Dad . . . school is good. Life is . . . it's good."

"I am not asking so that I can lecture you. You are an adult now, Sean. You will not be 'in trouble' if you tell me something I don't like." Dad studies him again, like he did outside the airport. Like he is looking at someone he does not really know. "You asked me to tell you a story like when you were a boy. And I saw you, when you hugged your _hermanito_, you almost cried. You seem older somehow, much older than your twenty-two years. I can see it in your eyes. Especially this one." Dad chuckles as he points a finger at Sean's left eye. "I can see you are carrying pain, _mijo_, and I will listen, if you want to tell me about it. If you think it will help."

Sean traces the lip of his beer can with his finger. He was always bad at lying to his dad. Dad always knew when he was hiding something. But telling his dad that he's supposed to be dead and that his sons are outlaws with superpowers and all of the other fucked up shit . . . that would sound crazy. How could anyone believe that, even his father?

But all of the shit Sean has been carrying—how many times did he wish he could talk to his father? How many times did he escape into fantasies of telling his dad what was going on?

How many times did he long for his father to ask him what's wrong?

"Some things happened, _papá_," Sean sighs. "I had to make some choices, and . . . all of them were hard. And I feel like I made a lot of mistakes. I don't know that you would be proud of me if you knew about them." Sean takes a swig of his beer, then leans over so far, holding the can between his legs so that it is almost touching the floor. "I want to tell you what happened, but I don't want to _talk _about what happened. It feels like I would be reliving all of those bad things, and all I want is to move on and forget them."

"How bad can they be? What, did you kill someone?"

"Ha. No . . . "

"Well, my son . . ." First Dad rubs his beard, then Sean feels his father's hand on his back. Dad pets him, like when he was upset or sick as a child. "You can tell me these things when you are ready to tell them to me. And maybe you will be ready. Someday. But I can see that you are sitting here, _mijo_, and I know you have a good heart. Whatever happened, it cannot be so bad. The world did not end."

"I mean, I guess we're all still here," Sean sighs.

"These things you did—do you feel like you made the best decisions you could?"

"I tried, Dad," Sean says, dragging his fist over his eye. "I really, honestly tried to do what's right.. But so many of these things—it just sucked because it didn't feel like there _was_ a 'right' thing to do. So I don't know. I don't know if I did the 'right' thing. And in the end, everything ended so shitty, that I don't know if it even mattered."

Sean still feels Dad's hand on his back. And he knows that Dad can feel him shaking. It's taking a lot of strength to keep himself from breaking down, sobbing like he has too many times this week.

"Hey, that is how life is, Sean," Dad says. "You make choices, and you wish there was a score card, something to let you know if you did the right thing or the wrong thing. Most of the time, though, you don't know. Do you know what the hardest decision I ever made was?"

"Probably leaving all of your friends and family in Mexico and coming here," Sean says.

"Good guess. That was number one for a long time," Dad takes a long swig of his beer, the kind that finishes the can. "The actual hardest decision was letting your mother leave."

Dad never talked about Mom after she left. Mom filled in most of the gaps when Sean met her in Haven Point and lived with her in Away. But this is the first time Dad has actually talked about her in any timeline.

"It was hard," Dad says, "to feel both so angry and so sorry for someone at the same time. What she did to you boys, it still fills me with rage. I don't like being angry, especially at her, but I do not understand how she could leave the two of you, miss you growing into the young men you have become. I know she hurt you bad, more than she understood. But at the same time, Sean, if you could have seen her as I did, if you had been old enough to understand—she was so sad. She was suffering and miserable, and it would have been cruel to her to ask her to stay. I guess, in a way, I chose her over you boys, and I will never know if I made the right choice."

"You made the right choice," Sean says. "Daniel and me, we turned out okay. It would have been worse, having a mom that didn't want to be here. And Mom is out there, somewhere, living a life that is much better for her. We're happy. And she's happy, too."

"I would like to think that. I wish I knew, though."

"I know," Sean says, finally sitting up He sets his hand on his father's shoulder. "And it's brave what you did. It must have been really scary, to let Mom go. To face raising us on your own. Taking all of that on, not knowing if it would be okay."

Dad is quiet for a while. Then he just smiles. "So you think it is brave what I did? Making a decision when I did not know if everything would be okay? Not knowing if it was the right one?"

"Yeah, I guess I do."

"And you think things turned out okay?"

"I guess they did."

"Well, you are my son, Sean Diaz. All of those things that happened, that you are not sure if they will be okay. I am certain that they will be. And I am certain that you are very brave, too, for making decisions when you had no idea if they would be right." Dad messes Sean's hair, and they actually go back to watching the movie for a few minutes before Dad says, "Say . . . when did you start calling your mother 'Mom' instead of 'Karen'?"


	14. Episode Two: The Unknown - Chapter Six

After Dad goes to bed, Sean sits up, drinking beer in the light of the Christmas tree without the television on.

It's quiet. Peaceful. And, even though he has spent hours in airports today and crossed four time zones, this is the first time he hasn't felt exhausted in years.

It's almost 1:00 when the kitchen light flickers on, and Sean hears the faucet. It's Daniel, in a t-shirt and boxers, taking some Tylenol with a glass of water.

"Why are you sitting in the dark like a weirdo?" Daniel asks. It's the most words the kid has said to him all night.

Sean's a little tipsy, so he stumbles to their kitchen counter and sits down because his legs don't want to support him. "I just missed being home. Like Dad said, you'll understand once you're away for a while." His words come out slurred. "Hey! You wanna drink a beer with me?"

"Wow, you are so drunk right now."

"Maybe a little bit, but I am also being so serious right now." Sean holds out his beer. Shakes the can. "Come on, man. I'm home. It's Christmas. I want to drink a beer with my little bro."

The eyebrow over Daniel's bruised eye rises. "Won't Dad be mad?"

"Not if he doesn't know about it. Jeeze, don't you know anything about getting away with shit?"

Daniel glances towards Dad's bedroom door, double-checking that it's closed, grins slyly, and takes the beer from Sean's hand. When Daniel tips it back, he realizes there are no more than a few drops. "Dude, that was a dick move."

"You're only fifteen," Sean says. "Don't they teach you at school that underage drinking is bad? I can't buh-leave you tried to get me to let you drink. Do you know how pissed Dad would be if I let his youngest son drink? Dad adores you. You're, like, so his favorite."

Daniel tries not to, but he laughs. Just a little bit. "So Dad said you are going to work for Adult Swim? Or Nickelodeon?"

"Uh, Dad exaggerates. I'm trying to. But I would probably just be getting coffee for the people who _actually_ work for Adult Swim or Nickelodeon. Or, best case, they might let me draw the can of beans Lincoln Loud picks up on a random episode of _Loud House_. If anything even comes of it."

"That's still pretty cool, though."

"Yeah, it's a lot cooler than what I was doing before," Sean says. And when Daniel looks at him, confused, he moves on. "Dad said that school was kind of rough for you this year. Bullies or something?"

"Dad is exaggerating that too," Daniel says. "There was a senior kid in my Spanish class who was like, 'Duuuh, you must be a _real_ stupid Mexican if you're only in first-year Spanish, duh.' But he's a senior in, like, half of my sophomore-level classes—including English—so I don't really take him that seriously."

"It still sucks that you have to put up with that. Hey, you want me to 'deal' with him? We could roll up to his house right now and 'Jolly-Ol'-Saint-KICK-His-Ass.'"

"Please," Daniel scoffs. "Like you could ever be in a fight. You would probably just piss your pants."

"You might be surprised at how tough your _hermano _actually is." Sean hits himself in the chest. But his inebriation makes him uncoordinated. He misjudges his swing, hits himself too hard. Ends up knocking the air out of his lungs, which just makes Daniel laugh at him.

And, for while, their conversation snaps like Lego bricks back into their easy and familiar back and forth. Sean tells Daniel about posing for his life-drawing class, and Daniel says he doesn't have a Twitch channel because he doesn't think anyone would follow it, but he _is_ pretty good at _Fortnite_, and maybe he should show Sean his skills sometime. They make fun of Mr. Stutzman, who was also Sean's math teacher when he was in tenth grade. And it just feels good for Sean to have his little brother talking to him again.

"Hey, do you still talk to that one kid?" Sean snaps his fingers, trying to think of that chubby nine-year-old Daniel played _Minecraft_ with all the time. "Noah! Do you still hang out with Noah?"

"No," Daniel sighs.

"Did . . . something happen?"

"We don't hang out anymore." Daniel says. "I . . . don't really want to talk about it."

"Aw, man, I'm sorry," Sean says. "It sucks, though, not being as close to someone that you used to be close to."

"Yeah . . ." Daniel leans on the kitchen counter, spins the empty beer can on his finger. He knocks the can into the recycling bin—with his hands, Sean notices, not with his mind.

"So," Sean says, "is there something up with you? Maybe something you feel like you can't tell Dad about?"

Daniel looks like a deer in the headlights of a car. "Why did you ask that?"

"I don't know. Sometimes things happen when you're fifteen. You, for example, have a black eye you got under 'mysterious' circumstances. I just want you to know that I'll listen and believe anything you tell me. Like, _any_thing."

"There's just some shit going on," Daniel says. "It's not a big deal. It's not worth talking about."

"You can talk about it, though."

"I don't _want_ to talk about it," Daniel says, crossing his arms. "You just started calling Dad every day out of nowhere, and he says you seem sad or like you've fucked something up. Do _you_ want to talk about that?"

"Not really," Sean says, and he leans back. Daniel's words have a sharpness to them. Sean's brain is heavy with alcohol, and he has no idea where this is coming from, what nerve he stepped on to make Daniel so defensive. But it feels like the Lego bricks of their conversation have suddenly snapped apart.

"I'm sorry," Daniel says. "That was a dick thing for me to say. It's just been a shitty week. And kind of a shitty school year."

"Hey, I get it, _enano_. Tenth grade fucking suuucks. Hell, growing up fucking sucks."

"Yeah," Daniel sighs. "So anyway. . . do you think we should wrap Dad's Christmas present?"

"Sure, dude, let's do it," Sean says.

"Cool." Daniel drums his hands on the counter. "So . . . where is it? Like in your bag or . . . ?"

Sean's head is pretty hazy, his body buzzing with alcohol. So he smiles dumbly for a bit before he realizes he hasn't said anything. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Suddenly Daniel's shoulders fall. "You _did_ get Dad's Christmas present, right?"

"Was I supposed to . . . ?"

"Oh my god. Oh my fucking god," Daniel mutters. Daniel runs his hands back and forth through his hair, messing it up as he paces the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the vinyl. "How could you fuck this up, dude?"

"I'm sorry, bro," Sean stammers. "I guess it . . . slipped my mind."

"That's fan-fucking-tastic. Classic Sean. Just classic," Daniel says. "Dude, we talked about this way back in October, and you said you would order Dad's gift with your credit card because I don't have one. When you didn't come home for Thanksgiving, I even texted you, reminded you, and you told me you were on it."

"Daniel, I'm sorry," Sean says. "I've had a lot going on. Just a lot on my mind."

"Really?" Daniel says, re-crossing his arms. "What have you had going on, Sean?"

"Um . . ." It's hard to think, but he knows he can't tell Daniel the truth. Just like with Dad, all of that time travel, telekinetic, I-was-in-prison-in-a-different-timeline shit will sound insane. So Sean just stammers, unable to come up with something believable.

"You know what? It doesn't fucking matter," Daniel snaps. "You're always 'busy.' You always have 'stuff' going on. You know, Dad makes excuses for you. 'Oh, Daniel, your _hermano_, he is working so hard, _mijo_.' And lately, he's been like, 'Daniel, your _hermano_, he is really making an effort now, _mijo_. You should give him a chance, _mijo_.' And you know what? I almost bought it. I really wanted to believe you had changed." Daniel sighs. And suddenly, his voice doesn't sound angry. It just sounds tired. "But you're still the same-ol' Sean, who just cannot think of people besides of himself. My same older brother who is just the least dependable person I know."

"I'm sorry, Daniel," Sean says. "Come on, dude. Give me a chance to make this right. Maybe we can do some overnight shipping or—"

"It's too late. Christmas is two days away, man." Daniel finally stops pacing. He leans with his back on the fridge. "You know, I'm used to you letting me down. But this is our dad, Sean. Our dad who, I don't know if you get this, but his life hasn't been easy. And he takes on a lot, so we can have a less shitty life than he did growing up. I just really thought you would come through this time, but instead you drop the ball, and I . . . I feel so fucking stupid for thinking anything different would happen. Do you even remember what we were going to get him?"

Sean watches as his hand runs up and down his arm, pushing up his shirtsleeve, revealing the tattoo of the boy walking alone. Because all he can do is stammer. Because he doesn't know what the gift was supposed to be. That's in the part of his life that's still buried in the fog.

"You know, if you really cared, you would come through once in a while," Daniel says. "You would make someone other than yourself a priority sometimes. You would find a way to fit things in. It's not that hard to click the link I emailed you and type in your credit card number, you know?"

Daniel starts to head back to his bedroom. "Wait," Sean says. And Daniel stops, expecting Sean to say something, but Sean has no idea what to say. He's already said he was sorry. And he doesn't really know how to make this right. He feels like, in this timeline, he has maybe never made anything right with Daniel. "I know I let you down. I promise I will make this up to you. And Dad. The two of you, nothing is more important to me than you and Dad, _enano_."

And Daniel closes his eyes for a moment. And when he opens them again, they look sad. So sad. "Go to bed, Sean. It's late, and you're drunk."


	15. Episode Two: The Unknown - Chapter Seven

The next morning, Sean's comfort of waking up in his childhood bedroom is muted by knowing he let his brother down, that he let his father down, and that he has to brave the mall two days before Christmas while hungover. Dad can only afford to close the garage on Christmas Eve and Christmas, and he takes their car with him to work. Since Sean's car is back in Savannah, he calls a Lyft and heads to the mall with his little brother (who is giving him the silent treatment) for a last-minute Christmas gift.

The mall is absolutely batshit.

Their driver almost gets sideswiped twice, and the poor guy is sweating through his hoodie when he finally lets the Diaz brothers out of the car. Sean feels guilty enough to leave him a big tip as hazard pay. On the sidewalk, a woman drops an armload of presents and yells at Sean for it, even though he is, like, ten feet away from her. They push their way inside, and the building seems to pulsate with people, like it is some kind of breathing organism from a Korean horror film.

A long line of parents with screeching children wait to meet Santa Claus, and Sean stops to get a handle on this madness. That's when Daniel gives a half-hearted wave and starts to head off.

"Dude, wait," Sean says. "Where are you going?"

"I'm not five, Sean," Daniel says. "I don't need you to babysit me at the mall."

"No, I mean, we should stick together since we're getting a gift for our father."

"Oh no, no, no" Daniel says, shaking his head. "Bro, you already ruined the gift _we_ were going to give _our _father. I have, like, a hundred bucks saved from allowances. I'm going to get him something, probably something shitty since this is so last minute, but you are on your own. I am not bailing you out. Good luck, dude. I know it's going to be real hard for you because you'll have to think of someone other than yourself."

And then Daniel's gone, swallowed by the throng of humans and shopping bags. Sean stands there, surrounded by maybe a hundred bodies but still feeling alone.

And pissed.

"You fucking little brat," Sean mutters under his breath. All of this shit about Sean being self-centered, about him never thinking about anyone other than himself, it cuts under Sean's skin like a razorblade. Like, motherfucker, _everything_ he has done has been about Daniel and what's best for Daniel. Sean has had the shit kicked out of him, has had guns pointed at his head, and has given up his literal freedom for his little brother. And having Daniel accuse him of not being able to think of people outside himself? It feels like being kicked in the balls and spat on at the same time.

Except . . . all of those things Sean did for Daniel, they didn't happen here.

It's not fair to be mad at Daniel because this Daniel doesn't know about all of that dark shit. And . . . it's good that he doesn't, right? He's better off not having slept under bridges or getting brainwashed by a cult or growing up without their father.

Deep down, Sean knows he should be happy. It's not about him. It's about Daniel. And Daniel's life is_ better_ here, and if that means Daniel hates his guts, then that's a small price to pay to give Daniel a normal childhood.

Sean just misses his _hermanito_ so goddamn much.

And . . . why does the kid have it out for him so bad?

He gets that things are different in this timeline, but it's still muddy on _how_ they are different. It's like each person in Sean's life gets a page in a journal. People like Toby and Sarah, he only knows in one life. So their pages are pretty clear, and he can easily read the writing on them. Finn, Cassidy—even his mom and grandparents—their pages are pretty clear too, because they only have entries from his other life. But Lyla? Or Daniel? Their pages have writing on top of previous writing. He can't make out the words on their pages at all, and that sucks. It sucks that the people he wants to be closest to are the ones he understands the least.

Sean sighs and pushes his way through the crowds, wanders in and out of stores. He has no idea what to get his dad. He hasn't checked his email for the link Daniel sent, so he doesn't know what the original gift idea was, but Daniel is a pretty sensitive kid, so it was probably something awesome. Something much more awesome than anything Sean could come up with.

And, shit, Sean remembers he doesn't have a gift for Daniel either, and he is even more lost there. What does this version of Daniel like? Video games?

After pushing his way through the mall for almost an hour, bumping into increasingly grumpy shoppers, Sean ends up in front of a kiosk of gift cards. He stands beside a dull man desperately hunting for a gift for a wife he doesn't understand, and Sean sighs. Gift cards are a shitty way to say, _I don't get you. _But that's where Sean is at with his little brother, the person who matters the most to him in the world.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, he spies a young woman. It's almost like his spider-sense tingles. Because he would know her anywhere, at any time, and _in_ any time.

It helps that she looks the same as she does when she comes to visit him in prison, with black hair that hangs to her shoulders. She's wearing jeans with holes in the knees, even though there are below-zero wind chills. She never liked puffy jackets, so she has a sleek, black trench coat. It's open, and she's wearing an ironic Christmas sweater with Krampus eating a child. She's carrying a shopping bag and sipping a drink from Starbucks. Probably something pumpkin-spiced, which she secretly loved even though she thought it was "basic."

"Lyla?" Sean says, stepping over a toddler throwing a tantrum on the floor. "Hey, Lyla!"

She pauses for a moment, like she might reach for mace as she tries to figure out who this guy shouting her name is. Then she blinks. "Sean Diaz? Oh, hey man, what's up?"

"A lot!" Sean grins at his best friend. "How are you? How have you been?"

"Oh, you know, going to school. Senior year."

"Yeah, UCLA, right?"

She furrows her brow. "No, Washington State University."

"Oh." Sean could kick himself. Dumb. That was dumb. But UCLA is where she goes in the other timeline, so he just assumed . . .

"My mom ran into your dad," she says. "He said you were going to work for Nickelodeon or something."

"Sort of. I met a guy who works on _Loud House_, it's this kids show, and he really liked my stuff. I think it might be an in."

"That's real cool, Sean. I'm glad things are working out. It was real good running into you."

And then she starts to turn away.

"Hey, wait," he says, forcing a light-hearted chuckle to mask his hurt. "That's it? I'm not sure when we saw each other last, and, I dunno, I thought maybe we could make plans to catch up?"

"I'm kind of busy," she says. And Lyla has never been good about hiding her emotions from him, but she flashes a smile that is so _obviously_ insincere that even if he didn't know her like the back of his own hand, Sean would recognize it as fake. "Maybe next time."

"But I. . ." he starts, but how does he finish that sentence?

_I risked everything to call you after my dad died. _

_I haven't talked to you outside of a prison's walls in years. _

_I thought we promised to always be besties. _

_I miss you._

_Dude, I love you. _

_I don't know why you're walking away from me. Please don't walk away from me._

_I just really need someone to help me right now because_

_I am so goddamn lost in my own life and _

_I don't know what to do._

But he can't find the words to say that without sounding crazy, and maybe she wouldn't want to hear it even if it wasn't crazy. He's twenty-two and an adult and sometimes adults have to swallow their stupid feelings, and he has been swallowing his hurt for fucking years, so at least this has a kind of familiar comfort in its shittiness. He keeps his voice from wavering. "It was just good to see you, Lyla Park."

"It was good to see you too," she says.

She doesn't sound like she means it.

He wonders if she can see through his fakeness too, that actually his heart is breaking having his best friend walk away from him.

He almost reaches for a hug. They always hugged, even if they were just going to be apart for a few hours.

Instead, he watches her go, disappearing into the last-minute Christmas shoppers. Like his brother did.

Then he returns to the kiosk to buy a gift card for Daniel.


	16. Episode Two: The Unknown - Chapter Eight

When Daniel wakes up on Christmas morning, he rolls over in his bed, picks up his phone, and scrolls to his messages with Noah, like he has every morning for the past two weeks.

It's still just a wall of sent texts with no reply.

It's embarrassing, every morning getting his hopes up that Noah had some kind of moment of understanding and texted him in the middle of the night to say, _Hey dude I'm sorry. _Or _Hey man I miss you._ Noah made it pretty clear he doesn't want to talk about things, but Daniel thinks—no, he _knows_—that if they could discuss what happened, everything would be sorted out. It doesn't have to be a big deal. More than anything, it just sucks not being able to hang out with his best friend.

So, though he knows he shouldn't, Daniel sends: _Merry Christmas buddy hope it's good._

Noah doesn't reply. Maybe he's still asleep. But Noah has little sisters, and it's Christmas, so he probably isn't. Noah's probably just . . . ignoring him.

Daniel isn't sure how long he stares at his phone, hoping it vibrates with a response before there's a knock on the door. Sean pushes it open, wearing the dorky Wolf Squad hoodie he always wore in high school and a pair of flannel pajama pants. "It's Christmas morning, _enano_."

Daniel cringes at that name. _Enano_. When he was little, he thought it meant something nice, like _hermanito_. Now it just sounds like his older brother being condescending. But it is Christmas. The least he can do is try to get through the day with Sean, for Dad's sake.

So he rolls out of bed, into a pair of _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ pajama bottoms and some intentionally dorky Rudolph slippers. When he steps out of his room, he is hit by the smell of sizzling bacon. No one ever cooks breakfast in the house. Usually, Daniel gulps down a Pop-Tart while Dad yells that he'll be late for school. And there isn't just bacon. There are eggs and pancakes, too. And it's all pretty good. "Yeah, because Dad had me helping him," Sean jokes.

"All you did was open the plastic around the bacon, Sean," Dad says.

"I like to think I was the producer," Sean says. "I 'produced' this breakfast and made it happen."

Usually, morning is Daniel's least favorite time of day, but breakfast at the table is pretty chill. However, he can't shut down his anxiousness about hearing back from Noah. When Dad carries some plates back to the sink, Sean nudges Daniel with an elbow. "You keep staring at the text messages on your phone. Who are you waiting to hear from?"

"Hmm? Oh, no one," Daniel says, shoving his phone into his pocket.

"You got a girlfriend?" Sean says, wagging his eyebrows in this deeply annoying way.

"No, no girlfriend."

"How about a boyfriend?"

"Dude, don't be a dick."

"I wasn't—"

"It's Christmas, Sean," Daniel says. "Can we just get through this? Please?"

Before Sean can say anything else, Dad calls them over to the couch. Daniel sits next to his brother. They smile, put on the masks of brothers who actually get along, so Dad can have a nice photo. Sean even sets his hand on top of Daniel's head, and Daniel waits until Dad isn't looking before he pulls away.

There was that question Sean asked the other night, about if there was anything going on, if there was stuff Daniel didn't feel like he could share with Dad. And Daniel said he didn't want to talk about it, but really, he does. He wants nothing more than to talk about it, especially since Noah won't talk about it. There have been a couple of times over the past week when Sean has texted him out of nowhere that Daniel has almost opened up like a dam. Because it would be good to talk to his older brother about these things.

It's just . . . he doesn't have an older brother that he _does_ talk to about these things.

After breakfast is cleared, they start opening presents. From Dad, Daniel receives a copy of _Festival de Lucha Libre_, a wrestling game for PlayBox that he has wanted for a while. From Sean, he gets an Amazon gift card. "It's the best gift—true freedom," Sean says. "You can get whatever you want without Dad's permission. Or having to rely on your self-centered, irresponsible brother."

"Thanks," Daniel says to be polite. The gift card is pretty lame like Sean's attempt at humor, but he got Sean the same thing, so it's okay.

But Daniel feels embarrassed when it's time for Dad's gifts. Daniel had wanted to get his father this sweet garage stereo that played Spotify and all of Dad's old CDs, but trusting Sean to actually follow through on something was a mistake. So, instead, Dad gets a bottle of cologne, which he pretends to like.

At least it's better than Sean's gift.

Sean's gift to Dad is some book of photography called _The Stars Over Seattle_. It looks like a totally overpriced, waste of money you pick up last minute from a gift shop.

Dad sets it on his lap, stares at it for a long time. At first, Daniel almost snickers. Dad is probably struggling to pretend he likes it. But then Daniel's father flips through the pages and looks like he is getting kind of emotional. "You don't know this," Dad says, "but your mom used to go out to the porch to smoke cigarettes. And I would go out there after her and tease her about stopping because I didn't want the heartache of her dying before me. And we would end up staring up at the stars in the night sky, not saying anything, but just being together. And those moments are some of my favorite memories of her. Even after everything, they are still good memories. Thank you, Sean."

"No problem, Pop," Sean says, smiling. "I'm just glad you like it."

And, like, what the fuck, right? Daniel is used to their dad making excuses for Sean, not seeing his "perfect" first son's many faults, but Sean's whole act lately, the hard 180 turn to being the considerate son who calls every day—it reeks of manipulation. It's like Sean is going to drop some bombshell that he got the daughter of a gang leader pregnant and has to flee the country.

But . . . Sean is also observant. And insightful. It's part of why his art is so good. Daniel's older brother can just, like, absorb details and understand them. He can do it with people, too, when he tries. It's entirely possible he was just really good at picking out something meaningful for their father.

That's the thing with Sean. He _can_ be a good dude. He just _isn't_ most of the time. That's why it sucks to have him as a brother. You can never count on Good Sean showing up. And if you get your hopes up that Good Sean will be there, you always get Shitty Lets-You-Down Sean instead. And Daniel is tired of getting his hopes up only to be disappointed that the version of his brother he got isn't the version he expected.

It looks like the gift giving is wrapping up, but then Sean pulls out three manila envelopes. He hands one to their father, one to Daniel, and one he holds on to for himself. "This is maybe dumb," Sean says. "But . . . well, I'll explain after you open them."

So they do. When Daniel tears his open, he finds a drawing inside. It's in a more realistic version of his brother's style, a sketch of three wolves. There's a large one, a medium one, and a smaller one. On Daniel's sketch, the small wolf is in the center. For Dad's, it's the large one.

The medium wolf is centered in Sean's. "So, I was thinking of getting this as a tattoo," Sean says, pointing to a spot on his chest, over his heart. "Maybe with the word _familia_ underneath. And since we are kind of a pack, I thought maybe . . ."

Dad rubs his chin. "It has been a while since your father has had fresh ink."

"I was thinking it could be like the Diaz family crest," Sean says.

It takes a bit for it to sink in. "Wait," Daniel says. "Are we talking about getting matching tattoos? Even me?" He sits up. "Dad, are you going to let me get a tattoo?" Last year, he got into a huge argument with his father because he wanted to get a music note with a song lyric on his wrist, and Dad was like, _Absolutely not! You are fourteen-years old and no son of mine will have a tattoo until he can get one on his own._

"I will have to think about it, _mijo,_" Dad says. "But a tattoo for your family is different. It might be okay."

That would be so cool. In the locker room during gym or this summer at the pool, people will see this sick tattoo and think Daniel is just the fucking coolest dude. That would be so awesome.

"So," Sean says, grinning "do you want to get it, _enano_?"

Ugh. There's that name again. _Enano_. Dwarf.

That's all Daniel has been to his brother. Just some annoying little dwarf.

Daniel studies the drawing. It would be a sick tattoo. And he loves his dad, and it would be awesome to have something to honor that. And, deep down, he cares about his brother. They used to be close. At least, Daniel thinks they were. But the past few years of their relationship have been so rocky. Getting a tattoo to honor Sean—it feels fake. Like he's doing it just to keep the peace. Like it's unearned.

"I don't know," Daniel sighs. "Maybe Dad was right. Maybe I shouldn't have one until I'm older."

# # #

**Soundtrack: "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas"**

**cover by Bright Eyes**

After presents, it's time for Dad's annual _Lord of the Rings_ Christmas marathon. Even when Sean was a teenager, he was only pretending to be "too cool" for it. It's low-key one of his favorite parts of Christmas, but it is a grueling, twelve-hour slog. So this year, Sean tries to pace himself, like he's running an actual marathon. Because he never thought he would get to do this tradition again, he wants to enjoy every moment of orcs and talking trees and confusingly sexy elves with his dad and brother.

During _The Fellowship of the Ring_, Sean lies on his back on their couch. It's a sectional, so Daniel lies face down, perpendicular to him. When they were younger, there was plenty of extra room. Now, Daniel is big, so their feet touch if Sean stretches out. Each time someone puts on the One Ring and turns invisible, Sean stretches out just enough to kick Daniel's toes. Then his ankles. Each time Daniel pulls away, Sean stifles a snicker. Even after everything, picking on Daniel is still amusing.

But late in the film, it's escalated to where Sean has moved down the couch far enough that he rests his feet on the back of Daniel's calves, and Daniel finally sits up, punches him in the thigh three times quick, and snaps, "Dude, fucking quit!"

"Ah, there it is," Dad says from the chair. "The familiar sound of my two sons getting along. What music it is to have my _familia_ under one roof again. But seriously, boys, it's Christmas. Can you, for your poor _papí_, try to get along?"

"Sorry," Sean mutters.

"He started it," Daniel says.

# # #

During _The Two Towers_, Sean swaps places with his dad. And he sits with his sketchbook—a newer one, not _the_ sketchbook with the bad memories—and idly draws. He sketches his living room, his dad and his brother sitting on the couch together. He doodles a picture of Lyla. He scribbles random thoughts.

_Time Travel = Bullshit_

_Seattle Prison x1000 _

_Why am I such a dick here? _

_Why does Daniel hate me? _

_What did I do wrong? _

But he also draws a picture of his family, as he wants them to be. It's a picture of him standing between his dad and brother. Dad's hand is on Sean's shoulder, and Daniel is flexing goofily. They all have the wolf tattoo on their chests.

Daniel's reaction to the tattoo stings, the whole "Maybe when I'm older" thing. Sean knows Daniel wants a tattoo. Or, he thinks Daniel does. When they were little, Sean would use sharpies to draw on himself and his little brother until they looked like little badasses with sick temporary tattoos. Dad would get pretty mad about it because the ink sometimes bled onto their sheets or clothes. And when Sean was fifteen, he asked his father if he could get a lyric from a song on his bicep, and they had a pretty big fight. Sean just really thought Daniel would appreciate the gift, maybe give him _some_ points for trying.

Sean watches his father and little brother watching the movie. Daniel has shifted, so he's kind of sitting under Dad's arm, like a little kid even though he's a mopey teenager. And Sean looks down at his drawing, looks at the smile on Sketched Sean's face. He looks happy.

And Sean thinks, _Am I happy?_

Life is better here. It is so, so much better here. But he doesn't _feel_ happy. It's like there's a wall between him and his happiness. He misses things. Lyla. Daniel. Especially Daniel.

He didn't realize you could miss things in a life that was total shit.

# # #

When _Return of the King_ starts, Daniel accepts that Noah probably isn't going to text him today, and he should probably stop letting it ruin his Christmas. Dad pops a frozen pizza into the oven, and he heats up some apple cider with cinnamon sticks in it on the stove. As Dad's pouring the cider into mugs, he says, "So I was going to harden mine with a bit of rum. Sean, are you interested?"

"Oh man, are we officially becoming drinking buddies?" Sean says, and Dad directs him to get the liquor out of the cabinet.

"Can I have some?" Daniel asks.

"If you want something stronger than cider, there is some milk left in the fridge," Dad says. "I'm sure you still have some bones that need to grow strong."

"You know, it's not fair that you and Sean get to be drinking buddies. Christmas is supposed to be a time for the _whole_ family," Daniel says. And he sticks his lip out as far as it will go, doing his best to exaggerate a pout. "What about your poor, neglected younger son? What will he do now that he has been cast aside by his father and brother? And on Christmas?"

"Drinking with your _padre_ is something you have to earn. Sean had to wait a long time for the privilege of drinking alcohol," Dad says. "Well, except for all those times he did it in high school that he thought I didn't know about."

"Come on," Sean says, pouring rum into his and Dad's glasses. "I never drank in high school. I was a good kid."

Daniel looks at his father; his father looks at him. And they both glare at Sean, like, c'mon dude, really?

"Okay, that was total bullshit," Sean says. "Jeeze, I hate when you both team up on me."

Daniel chuckles, and he surprises himself; he hits Sean in the arm. Not mean, but playful. But Sean gives him a strange look, like he just handed him a hundred dollars or something.

They go back to watching the movie, the three of them on the couch, with Dad in the middle. They eat their pizza, Dad and Sean go through a few rounds of hard cider, and Daniel does a good job of ignoring the siren-call of his message-less cell phone. But as Sam and Frodo approach Mount Doom on the final leg of their journey, Daniel hears his brother sniffle. Then whimper. Daniel leans around his father, and Sean's eyes are definitely pink. "Dude, Sean, are you crying?"

"No, it's just—" Sean takes a breath, and his body visibly shakes. It's most noticeable in his hands. "It's just Sam and Frodo traveled so far together, you know? And Sam was with Frodo the whole way, and it was just the two of them. Their friends and everyone, they were so far away, and their journey was so hard . . . and I never realized how _hard_ it was for them to be so far away from their home and all they had was each other and that's so goddamn sad and I know Frodo just, like, _gives up_ at the end, like, how can he just quit after all the shit they went through and . . . and . . . " And he trails off babbling like that until he starts sniffling again.

Daniel looks at his father; his father looks at him. Then Dad takes the cider mug out of Sean's hands. "Okay, _mijo_, that's enough drinking for ol' Sean this Christmas. I'm cutting you off and getting you a glass a water."

When Dad gets up to carry their glasses to the sink, Daniel studies his older brother. Sean's lip quivers. He rubs at his eyes. And he looks like he's trying to keep it together, but Daniel has no idea what's shaking his brother apart. They've seen the movie so much that they know it by heart. Sean has never gotten emotional during it. And, though Daniel doesn't know much about alcohol, he's pretty sure Sean hasn't had _that_ much rum.

But still, there's a look about Sean that says he's hiding something. And whatever that something is, it is what's making Sean so goddamn sad, not Sam and Frodo's journey.

Daniel slides closer to his brother, and he lifts up his hand, starts to set it on Sean's shoulder. But then he stops.

He isn't sure what to say to his brother. Or how to comfort him. So he just sets his hand back down, the Diaz brothers sitting beside each other on the couch, in their pajamas, watching the movie like nothing is wrong.

# # #

By the time the ring gets chucked into the volcano and everyone goes home to the Shire and the movie staggers through its other twenty endings, even Daniel groans when Dad says, "So, are you ready to start _The Hobbit_?"

"I'm game," Sean says. And he is, but he's also trying to sound extra chipper to hide his emotional breakdown from earlier.

"Well, I am afraid I am out," Dad says. He stands up, and he makes Sean stand too in order to hug him.

"Merry Christmas, _mijo_," Dad says. "Thank you again for coming home."

"Merry Christmas, _papá_," Sean says. "And I'm just glad I have some place to come home to." And he hugs his dad a little tighter. Because it's good to be with his family, home in their Shire, safe from the orcs and Sauron.

Dad just messes Daniel's hair to tell him Merry Christmas and good night. But then Dad leans over the couch and whispers something into Daniel's ear, too quiet for Sean to hear, but obviously about him since Daniel is looking his way.

After Dad goes to bed, Sean sits back down on the couch. Sean is trying to think about what to say to his brother, is seriously suggesting they try to get through one of the _Hobbit_ movies because at least that's _something_, when Daniel says, "So I have kind of been dying to play _Festival de Lucha Libre_ all day_. _You can play with me, if you want."

It takes a moment for the game to fire up, and Sean wonders when the last time he held a PlayBox controller was. A new generation of systems has come out since he's been in jail, and the new shape of the controller feels awkward in his hands. Sean doesn't recognize most of the luchadores in the game, so he chooses a sick looking wrestling skeleton named Pentagón Jr. Daniel chooses a masked dude in tattoos named Rey Fenix. Daniel's character bounces around the ring like a pinball, easily beating Sean three times in a row. After that, Sean does better, but he picks up that Daniel is going easy on him.

At first, they don't really talk. Just, "Good match" or "Nice move." It's weird to be playing games together in silence. As kids, they would trash talk until it escalated into full-blown arguments. Sometimes physical violence.

But somewhere around his sixth win, Daniel says, "I like that we still watch _Lord of the Rings_ on Christmas."

"I do too," Sean says.

"Do you remember when I was little, and I would climb on your shoulders and pretend you were an Ent?"

"Yeah, you'd get so mad because I'd pretend not to know what they are, even though I've seen the movies a million times," Sean laughs. "You want to see if I can still carry you like an Ent, Pippin?"

"That's okay," Daniel says. "I don't really want to get dropped on my head. Again."

"Dude, that was, like, ten years ago, and I'm still really sorry about it."

And for a while, it's like they're back to normal. They even trash talk each other over their next match. Everything is pretty good between them, until Sean asks, "What's your hesitation on the tat, man?"

"Just don't think it's the right time," Daniel says.

"I always thought you wanted a tattoo. It's pretty cool that Dad would even consider it, right?"

"Sean, don't do this," Daniel says, mashing buttons on the controller. His luchador spins around Sean's then drives him to the ground. "You never talk about difficult shit, so please don't start now. It's Christmas."

"I just thought it would be cool to have something that I share with my dad and little brother."

"Look, man, we're just . . . not the kind of brothers that get matching tattoos, you know?"

Sean lands a couple of strikes in the game. But then Daniel reverses his finishing move. "Do you ever wish that we were the type of brothers that get matching tattoos?"

Daniel sighs. "Yeah. I do. But we're not . . . close enough." Suddenly, his luchador jumps off the ropes and pins Sean's.

"So . . . why aren't we closer?"

"Because we're not." The ref counts three, and Sean has lost another match.

Sean sets the PlayBox controller on the table in front of him.

"Dude, I didn't say that to hurt your feelings," Daniel says. "Can we please just keep playing the game? Please?"

"You didn't hurt my feelings, it's just . . . " Sean squeezes his eyes shut and braces himself to ask his next question. It's a question that has been pounding a nail into his brain for the past week. He takes a deep breath. "Do you hate me because of what happened on Halloween?"

Daniel raises an eyebrow. "What happened on Halloween?"

Sean sighs. "You were about nine. It was actually three days before Halloween. You were outside playing with some fake blood you had made, and I had been a dick to you because you wanted to show it to me and I was trying to get ready for a party. And I saw you playing outside, about to spill it all over that fucking asshole Brett. And I tackled you in the front yard and dragged you back into the house. I think I hurt you. No, I know I hurt you. You started crying. You said you had a bad brother."

Daniel stares at his hands for a moment. Sean didn't want to ask the question because he knows the answer is yes. Deep down, he knows this must be the cost Max was talking about. He screwed up the past and made his brother hate him. And now Daniel is thinking about this painful memory. Sean hurt Daniel, and now he's hurting him again by making him relive the thing that forever changed their relationship.

Maybe Daniel really does have a bad brother.

But then Daniel looks up, and he doesn't look sad or distraught. Just bewildered. "Sean, I don't remember that. I literally have no idea what you're talking about."

"But that _has_ to be it!" Sean says. "It's the only thing that's different. I tackled you. You hate me. Our relationship has been bad ever since. That has to be the reason you don't text me back or want anything to do with me or just think I'm this colossal shithead who sucks to be related to."

"The only thing that's different?" Daniel mutters. He shakes his head. "Dude, why would I be carrying a grudge over something that happened when I was a little kid? That's stupid. And I know I got pissed the other night and that I get annoyed with you, but I don't _hate_ you. We're just . . . not close. I don't know how else to say it. I sort of appreciate you texting and checking in, but a few half-assed gestures around Christmas doesn't erase fifteen years, you know?"

"I got Dad on board with letting you get a tattoo. I feel like that was a whole-ass gesture, man."

"Sure. I guess that was pretty cool."

Sean sighs. "I'm not trying to half-ass things. I really do miss you, Daniel. More than you can understand. _Te quiero, enano._"

And Daniel winces.

For Sean, it almost feels like being cut, like having a shard of glass shoved through his eye. _Enano_ has always been his term of affection for his brother.

But Daniel hears that word, and he cringes.

"You know I'm only in first-year Spanish, bro," Daniel says.

"Don't be a fucking dick right now, please," Sean pleads. "You know what fucking '_te quiero'_ means."

"Jesus, calm down," Daniel says. "I love you too, okay? You're my brother. My _familia_ or whatever. Let's just . . . keep playing the game, okay? It's been a good day. Let's not end it shitty."

"Fine. Whatever," Sean says, but as they keep playing, there is no more trash talk.

And Daniel definitely stops going easy on him.

* * *

_t__hrough the years_

_we all will be together_

_if the fates allow_

_. . ._

_from now on, all troubles will be miles away_

_so have yourself a merry little christmas day_


	17. Episode Two: The Unknown - Chapter Nine

The day after Christmas, it snows. Sean watches it fall from the window of his childhood bedroom as he bundles up in his Wolf Squad hoodie and a coat. He thinks about how it probably doesn't snow in Puerto Lobos, and when he steps outside, he reaches down and grabs some of it off the ground with his bare hand. The cold stings his skin. This is the first time he has touched snow` since that winter he spent at Claire and Stephen's house five years ago. He's seen it. But it's always been on the other side of a concrete wall.

He has a short walk ahead of him, but the couple of blocks seem so far away. It's a walk he's done hundreds of times, often in the dark, frequently high. He could probably do it with his eyes closed because it's as familiar as the Wolf Squad hoodie hugging his body. Even though it's been years, he'll never forget the way to Lyla Park's house.

There's a beat-up Toyota Corolla in the Parks' driveway. It looks about fifteen years old, the paint sun-faded, and way-too-crappy to be Lyla's parents'—but just crappy enough to be hers. Sean hopes this means Lyla is still home.

He goes up her front steps and knocks on the door. At first, no one answers, and he wonders if they all went out, starts to doubt if he should be here. But finally the door opens, and it takes Lyla's mom a long moment to recognize him. Then she beams. She hugs him tight around the neck, so tight he can barely breathe.

In the other timeline, Sean knows Mrs. Park hates him. Or at least, she thinks of him as "that criminal" that turned her daughter into a rabble-rouser. She probably blames him for her daughter smoking pot, even though it's totally the other way around. But here, he never got arrested, never got blamed for killing a cop. He's still that pitiful, quiet kid who grew up without his mom.

She insists that he comes inside, and he takes off his shoes without having to be told; the snow has seeped through the canvas of his skate shoes, and his socks are damp against the Parks' vinyl kitchen floor. Mrs. Park bombards him with questions. How is school? How is his father? And Daniel? Does he have a girlfriend? She mentions Lyla doesn't have a boyfriend either and tells him he can wait in the living room. She'll go get her daughter.

Sean sets his coat over the arm of the couch and sits down, and he's hit by a dump truck full of memories. How many bad movies has he watched in this living room? This very couch is where he embarrassingly sobbed after his seventh-grade girlfriend dumped him after five whole days of going out. In the backyard, he smoked pot for the first time, and this liquor cabinet gave him his first taste of whiskey; he threw up in the Parks' bathtub because Lyla was already puking in the toilet.

There was that one summer afternoon when he was fifteen that he and Lyla lay on her bed, shoulders touching, sharing a pair of earbuds to listen to the Front Bottoms, and he felt like life stretched towards infinity in all directions.

One winter when Lyla tried to be "more girly" and get into makeup, somehow she talked Sean into letting her practice putting it on him in her bathroom. _I can see what I'm doing better on you than in the mirror,_ she insisted. _But we have very different skin tones, so it's going to look different on you,_ he said. And she was so surprised that skin tones were a thing with makeup and that he knew about them—he didn't, it just seemed really obvious—but he turned out to be better at makeup than her. After that, on those rare times when she wanted to "girl up," he got to help her apply it.

Growing up, nobody was closer to him than Lyla. It's why he leaned on her so hard when he was crushing on Jenn. And why, in that other life, when he was on the run after that cop got killed, he called her. Twice.

Because when he was at the darkest point in his life, hers was the voice he wanted to hear the most.

He risked _everything_ just to talk to her. And now, with no barriers between them, they just stop talking? That doesn't make any sense.

Just like it doesn't make sense that he and Daniel can be just "not close."

There _has_ to be something he did wrong, some screw up. Because if there is something he did wrong, then that means there is something he can fix.

He hears a cough, and Lyla is at the end of the hallway, her arms crossed over the logo of her Washington State hoodie. She kind of glares at him, but she asks if he wants something to drink. When he doesn't, she says that since he's here, they can talk in the sunroom.

The Parks' sunroom clearly used to be a porch that someone built thin walls around. It's already drafty, and Lyla cracks open a window so she can light a cigarette.

She doesn't offer him one.

She doesn't say anything either as she drags the cigarette and blows the smoke towards the open window. So Sean stands there, feet wet and cold and with his hands in his pockets. Finally, he says, "Hey, so, do you remember that time we got high in here and Ellery licked all of the sugar off that entire package of Sour Patch Kids? It was like one of those one-pound bags too."

"Sean, what do you want?" she asks.

Lyla could always be blunt. But this is like sawing through bullshit with a dull razor blade. "Look, I know we aren't really close anymore," he says. "And maybe this is a dumb question, but, a lot of things have gotten kind of hazy for me lately. And I was wondering what happened between us."

"What, is this your quarter-life crisis?"

"No, I just want to know why we stopped being besties."

"Sean," Lyla sighs, "you run from hard conversations, so why do you want to go through this now?"

"I just need to know. What did I do to make you mad at me? What can I do to make things right? "

"Dude, I'm not mad at you."

"But we aren't friends anymore."

"But nothing happened." Lyla's cigarette has burned down, so she pulls another one out of the pack she keeps in her pocket. This time, she holds the pack out to him, but he hesitates. "We're adults now, man. We don't have to hide it anymore."

He has a recollection of Sarah hiding a pack of cigarettes from him. "I think my ex-girlfriend made me quit."

"You think? Classic non-commitment, Sean," she chuckles, placing the pack back into her pocket. She lights up, and a cloud of smoke billows from her mouth. "Nothing bad happened between us, dude. You can't make things right because there's nothing to make right. We just grew apart. You went off to Savannah and got busy. We texted a bunch at first. But then it took you longer to reply. Then you would forget to call even when we scheduled it. Eventually, I got tired of hearing your voice mail. Sure, it sucked at first because you were my bestie. But I get it. You went after your dream, and you're making it work. And there's probably things I could have done better too. But I made new friends. I moved on. It happens. It's cool. So it goes, you know?'

"Is it cool, though?" Sean says. "I just remember years ago, us worried about growing apart if we went to different colleges." And Sean stumbles over his own tongue because there's so much he can't say. _I called you when things were at their worst. You stood up for me when everyone wrote me off as a criminal. You are the only one of our friends who visits me in jail. _"We promised nothing would tear us apart. It makes me sad that something did. Doesn't that, I dunno, make you sad?"

"It did." Her cigarette has burned down, and she puts it out in an ashtray. "But not anymore."

A sigh rocks Sean's body, and he collapses into the wicker chair that Adam once tackled Ellery into. He sets his face in his hands. It doesn't make any sense. How can the people closest to him suddenly not want anything to do with him if nothing happened? These people stuck by him through the hardest shit, when it was actually fucking difficult, yet here, with nothing in the way, their relationships have just evaporated like ice on a lake at the turn of spring.

And not only that, but things are still hard here. Like, they are obviously a million times better than the life where he is in prison, but he still has shit to work through. And he wakes up in the middle of the night from nightmares, memories from that old life.

He still needs someone.

But all those people he has relied on for the past few years . . . they're all gone.

Some he never met.

And some he let slip away.

"Sean?" Lyla says. "Hey, you still with me, buddy?"

"I don't get it. Things are bad with my brother too. How can things just be bad between us if I didn't do anything to make them bad?"

"Well, dude, you were always kind of a dick to Daniel. He was, like, the sweetest little kid, and he looked up to you like you were his fucking hero. And you acted like you never wanted to be around him. The fact that you are just now noticing things are bad with your brother is probably exactly _why_ they are bad. Relationships are like plants, you know? You don't have to do anything to kill them. You just have to get too busy to water them."

Sean sighs and presses his fists against his temples. He thinks back to what Toby said in Savannah, that people think he's self-centered. That he bails when things get hard.

He thinks about what he did to Sarah, breaking up with her by not breaking up with her.

And he remembers what Daniel has said this week. That it's impossible for him to think of someone other than himself. That Daniel should have expected his older brother would let him down. That they just aren't the type of brothers that get matching tattoos.

And then he thinks, really thinks, about who he was before his dad died in the other timeline. And that version of Sean was . . . he was a real shithead. And, sure, he was sixteen, and all sixteen-year-olds are kind of shitheads. But losing his father and his home and having to take care of Daniel forced him to grow up.

And apparently, here, he never had to.

Or at least, he didn't grow into the man that he wants to be.

The people he loves the most, they don't know that he loves them. He's never had to be there for them. He's never had to show them that he needs them too.

And, so, they all just think he's some unreliable shithead.

Because that, apparently, is what he is.

"Sean?" Lyla says waving a hand in front of his face. "Dude, you really don't look good. Are you okay?"

He stands up from the chair. "I should go. It wasn't cool of me, just showing up here after all this time."

"Uh, you got kind of weird," Lyla says.

She follows him to the kitchen where Sean pulls on his skate shoes. They're sopping wet now that the snow has melted off them.

"Are you sure you're okay to get home?" Lyla asks. "I could drive you or . . . "

"I'm good," he lies.

And it's a good thing he has done the walk back from Lyla's house a million times because he does it this time with his vision blurred.

When he gets back to his house, his dad is at work, and the little brother who barely talks to him is playing video games in the living room. So Sean goes to his room, pulls the old sketchbook from his bag, flips through it, and feels like he is wrapped in the weight of everything.

# # #

Daniel hears Sean come home, but he doesn't think much about his brother going to his room without a word. The story mode of _Festival de Lucha Libre_ is much harder than he thought it would be. Like, no matter what he does, LA Park and Psycho Clown keep cheating in the _Lucha de Apuestas. _Maybe it's the frustration or the assault of colors that flash on the screen with each loss, but he starts to feel a dull pain between his eyes. It gets pretty bad, and he gets up to get some Tylenol from the kitchen.

But when he does, he hears whimpering. It gets louder as he walks towards Sean's bedroom door, which isn't closed all the way. Then he hears a shout. So Daniel pushes the door open, and his older brother is lying face down on the bed, fully clothed, even wearing his coat and shoes, like he just passed out after coming home. He's asleep. And he twitches.

Every once in a while, he whimpers. Like a dog being kicked.

Daniel hovers by the door, unsure if he should wake his brother. Clearly, Sean is having an intense bad dream. But Daniel also has flashbacks to being a kid, and _always_ getting screamed at for being in his older brother's room. But the nightmare seems pretty intense, so Daniel cautiously approaches the bed.

Sean's hand hangs off the side, and near his fingertips on the floor is one of his sketchbooks. On the page is a drawing of a boy, with energy and debris swirling around him like a character from _Akira_.

Daniel loves his brother's art. When he was little, he would sneak into Sean's room and read through his sketchbooks. Now, Daniel gets how shitty that was. Sean uses them like his diary. It's not cool to invade the guy's privacy like that.

But something about the boy in the picture catches Daniel's eye. And it's that the boy looks like him. When he was little. And then he catches his name written to the side.

Sean's still twitching, still asleep. So Daniel picks up the sketchbook and reads:

_WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?_

_What's happening to Daniel…_

_What is he?_

And Daniel's heart drops. His first thought is Sean knows. There's no way Sean can know, but he_ is_ observant. Maybe Daniel slipped up or something, and now Sean knows and he thinks Daniel is some kind of a freak.

But then Daniel flips through the pages before the drawing, and he realizes that Sean doesn't know anything.

A lot of it is vague, but it looks like Sean is sketching out some kind of story. It's about the two of them, when they were younger. They're homeless. They're on the run. It seems like their dad is dead.

Why would Sean be writing something like this?

Suddenly, Sean screams. It startles Daniel enough that he almost drops the sketchbook.

Most of the sounds Sean makes aren't words, just scared, desperate pleading. But a few words come out: _Merrill. Gun. Stop!_ And then Sean's muttering "Don't! Don't! Don't!" and then he shouts "Daniel!" and he's shaking like it's an earthquake, and he is unable to wake up, like Freddy Krueger is murdering him in his sleep.

"Hey! Hey, Sean!" Daniel says, shaking his brother. His voice cracks. "Wake up, man. Come on. Please, man. Please wake up. Please, _hermano_, wake up."

Sean sits up so suddenly that his skull almost cracks Daniel in the face. Daniel stares into Sean's eyes, and they look hazy, and puzzled. Like they don't recognize him.

But then Sean says, "Daniel, you're okay," and catches Daniel in a hug so tight he can't breathe. "Where are we?"

"Dude, we're in Seattle," Daniel says, gently pushing his way out of the hug. "We're in your room. Sean, are you alright? You're—you're kind of scaring me here, bro."

"Yeah," Sean sighs, shaking his head. "I'm fine, Daniel. Don't worry. It was just . . . a bad dream. One of those ones that seem too real." Then Sean's eyes fall on the sketchbook still in Daniel's hand. "What are you doing with that?"

"Nothing! It was on the ground, and I—"

"Did you read it? Give it to me."

"I didn't—"

"Stay the fuck away from my stuff, Daniel!" Sean shouts, and Daniel feels the sketchbook jerked out of his hand so hard that his fingers seem to go with it.

"Okay! Fine! Jesus, you're such a dick!" Daniel stomps out of his brother's room, like he has countless other times before. He should have known. He always gets yelled at. And he goes back to playing his videogame, trying to wrap his head around why his brother has to be such a dick.

But even as he keeps taking chairshots and _tope suicidas_ from LA Park, Daniel can't help wondering—why is Sean sketching a story where their dad died and his little brother has super powers?

He's frustrated at his game and pissed at his brother and confused by the sketchbook, and all of it is making his headache worse.


	18. Episode Two: The Unknown - Chapter Ten

That night, Sean sits on the floor of his childhood bedroom, feeling like a stranger in his own life. The lights are off, but the snow outside catches the streetlight, painting everything in a dim, moon-like glow. With a finger, Sean traces the lines of the tattoo on his forearm of the boy walking on the road alone, where his wolf tattoo from Cassidy used to be. He wonders what he was thinking when he was sitting under the needle; he remembers he got it the first week he moved to Savannah and that it felt significant.

And back in Savannah, he has a life. He is about to graduate. He has some amazing job opportunities lined up. He has friends. And a cute boy who wants to have sex with him.

And he has his dad.

But the people who were there for him in the darkest time of his life . . . they couldn't be further away.

Finn and Cassidy? Jacob and Hannah? He is a literal stranger to them.

Brody is still out there blogging. Sean checks his site every few days. But there is never a mention of the two brothers on the road.

Claire and Stephen haven't seen him since he was a little kid.

Mom is just some woman named Karen who bailed on him. She's out there in the desert, living her life without him.

And then there's Lyla. And Daniel.

Daniel is just in the next room. It's the closest Sean has been to him in five years. He remembers the last thing they said to each other in the prison visitation room, that there was a wall between them. And Sean made a promise to his little brother that he would knock the wall down.

And in a way, he did.

It's just that he left a canyon in its place.

_There will be a cost. It will be bigger than you can imagine. _That's what Max Caulfield said.

Sean pulls his laptop from his backpack. When he searches for _Max Caulfield_, it comes up with links to her exhibits, some books on Amazon, and her website with her portfolios. He looks through her photography, and he wants to hate it, but it's actually pretty good. Her photos have an emo vibe to them that is sometimes a bit melodramatic, but she finds the underlying sadness in everyday things. Like, there's a photo a kid's wagon that's rusted over with tall grass grown around it. He used to pull Daniel around in a wagon just like it when they were small. Back when Daniel actually looked up to him and before this timeline's Sean let their relationship rust over.

There's a form under the contact section, and he hesitates for a long time about what to write. And if he even should. He sets the computer on the floor and grabs a beer from the kitchen. He drinks about half of it before he sits down again and types:

_Hey, I know this sounds crazy. My name is Sean Diaz, and we met once but in, like, a different timeline. I have time travel powers. When we met, you told me you did too. And you told me about your friend Chloe and the storm. You told me not to use my powers, but I changed my past anyway. Everything in my life is different now. I don't really know how to handle this. And I don't know who I can talk to, so I hope you don't think I'm crazy. If this sounds nuts, just ignore this. _

He leaves his phone number and his email.

Sean actually forgets he sends it as he finishes out his week in Seattle. Nothing much happens, though he tries to spend as much time with his dad as possible. He wishes he could spend more time with Daniel, but Daniel doesn't even want to play videogames together anymore.

When it's time for Dad to take Sean to catch his flight, Sean is pissing in the bathroom when he overhears:

"Why do I have to go to the airport? Sean can get on a stupid plane without me."

"Your brother doesn't come home often, my son. It is important that you say goodbye to him."

"But I don't want to go to the airport. And Sean doesn't care if I say goodbye to him."

They must move away from the kitchen because Sean can't make out their words. But Dad's voice gets louder, and it sounds like he and Daniel are about to erupt into a full-out argument when Sean pushes the bathroom door open.

"Daniel doesn't have to go to the airport if he doesn't want to," Sean says.

"See!" Daniel gestures towards him. "Sean doesn't even want me to go, so why can't I stay here?"

"I didn't say I don't want you to go," Sean says, shortly. "I said you don't _have_ to."

"It's the same thing!" Daniel says.

"Okay!" Dad says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I want both of my sons to say goodbye to each other _at_ the airport. Because we are _familia, _and they are brothers, and deep down they love each other. That is my decision. Discussion is over."

Daniel stammers something, but Dad shoots him a glare. He's serious. The discussion is over.

The car has a weird vibe to it with Daniel sulking in the backseat. And when Sean gets dropped off, Daniel just stands across from him, arms crossed, looking away. And Sean gets it. He was fifteen. He lost arguments with Dad all the time then acted out just like this. But, also, it hurts because he isn't sure when he'll see Daniel again. So Sean figures, fuck it, and hugs his little brother for a good, long time, long enough that Daniel relents and pats him on the back.

"I can tell you are trying," Dad says as he welcomes Sean into a goodbye hug. "Don't give up on your _hermanito_."

"I just wish I hadn't let things get so bad between us," Sean says. "I love you, by the way."

"I know. I love you too, _mijo_," Dad says. "And if you ever decide to tell me what has happened to you, I will still listen. Remember, you are strong enough and brave enough to face whatever it is."

"Thanks," Sean says, and even though he knows Dad isn't going to disappear, it's hard to walk into the airport. It's like he's afraid that once he leaves Seattle, he'll wake up back in the world where he doesn't have his father.

It's during a layover in Chicago that Sean's cellphone buzzes. It's a message from Max. After a bit of back and forth, and her grilling him to make sure he isn't making shit up, she says that she'll be in Georgia next month for an assignment. And they should totally meet up.

# # #

It's late in January on a Tuesday afternoon when Sean drives up to Augusta. Only a handful of people are in the coffee shop Max said she would meet him at, so Sean picks her out immediately. Even if he hadn't met her before, she'd be easy to spot. It's the blue hair and that she's the only person besides Sean who isn't bundled up like the forty-five degree weather is the Antarctic.

"Ah, a fellow Pacific Northwesterner," Max says, pointing at his thin, cotton henley. He introduces himself, says he'll be back after he orders a coffee. As he waits on it, he scratches his chest which itches from the tattoo he got a few days ago, and he tries to sort through everything he wants to say.

"So," Max says as Sean sits down with his drink, "it seems like this is both the first and second time we have met."

"Yeah, thanks for meeting with me and not just assuming I'm insane. And also, Max, I feel like I owe you an apology," Sean says. "When we met in the other timeline, I was kind of a real dick to you. I wasn't in a good place, but I was still an asshole. You were warning me not to mess with the space-time continuum, and I was not very cool about it. I may have called you a stupid white girl. So I'm sorry for that."

"My bar for 'asshole' is probably higher than you think," Max says, sipping her latte. "And, technically, the thing you're apologizing for didn't happen. Why don't you bring me up to speed?"

He takes a deep breath, and he chooses his details carefully. He's been holding back so much, but he doesn't want his dam to break and spill shit all over her. He tells her about the police shooting his dad and how he and Daniel were on the run. And how he ended up in jail and how he can travel through his sketches and that he thinks drawing a place must anchor him to it somehow.

"I was able to do that with photographs, but that came later," she says. "The easiest thing to do was to rewind time, like replaying a scene in a movie. Have you tried that yet?'

"I can't do it," Sean says. "Believe me, I have spent most of the last six years of my life wanting immediate 'do-overs.' Pretty sure if I could 'rewind' time, I would have figured it out by now."

She asks him some more questions, like how he figured out his powers. How he thinks they work. She opens up more about what happened to her. That she always thought it was weird how her ability was linked to her passion-photography. "A lot of things linked to photography ended up being more horror-show than I thought," she says.

"What does that mean?"

"So what prompted you to contact me?" Max says, ignoring the question.

"Everything is different here," he sighs. "It's not bad necessarily, but . . . I just needed someone to talk to who might understand."

"I get it," she says. "Like, obviously, you're changing time. You expect things to be different. But it's always wild _how_ different. And being lost in your own life—it's messed up."

"And you can't just ask someone for directions," Sean says. "If you're like, 'Hey, person-who-I-have-a-life-long-relationship-with, why aren't we friends anymore?' then that person acts like you're crazy."

"I've been seeing a therapist for years. It helps. But I can't be totally honest with her. I can say I watched Chloe die, but I can't tell her that I watched Chloe die _multiple_ times. You sound like you don't understand what reality is if you say that. But stuff like that, it _is_ our reality."

"The fucked up thing is . . . everything was really bad in the other timeline," Sean says. "Like, I lost my dad. And got beat up a lot. A shard of glass went through my freaking eye. And I was serving a term in prison for something I didn't do. Life could not have sucked any more, and it got to the point where I was trying to end things. And so I changed the past, and everything is objectively better here. Like, I might get a job at Nickelodeon. How cool is that? But the handful of good things in that other life . . . I miss them. Like, I whole-heart miss them. And I still remember all the bad stuff. I think I have some kind of PTSD. Those things didn't happen here, yet they still happened to me. And, overall, I just have this feeling that in the other timeline, I was a better person, you know?"

"What, are you some kind of jerk here?"

"Not exactly. Kind of? From what I can piece together, I'm not an outright asshole. People think I'm self-centered, but I think I might just be overwhelmed. I don't really give people many reasons to think I'm not a shithead, though, and I apparently don't try very hard to keep the people that matter the most in my life. I retreat if things seem like they're difficult or complicated. I get the sense I'm an aggressively _C_-minus person."

"Most people kind of are _C_-minus, though. Especially guys in their twenties, no offense."

"None taken, I guess."

"So does being a _C-_minus person make you wish you hadn't changed the past?"

"No. I mean, that's not even up for debate, right? Here, I'm about to graduate from art school, maybe work a cool job, and I can call my dad whenever I want. That other life, I'm in jail, missing my dad every day, suicidal, and I don't even have peripheral vision. This is, uh, kind of why I yelled at you when we met before. Because there's no real choice to make. This life is the better choice."

"I can see that. But whenever I messed with time, especially the big stuff—"

"There was a consequence. You told me," Sean sighs. "In the other timeline, a lot of the bad stuff that happened to me was . . . it was my brother's fault."

The words fall out of his mouth so easily that it catches him off guard. He has never said that, never let himself think it consciously: _It was Daniel's fault_. But now the words sit there on the table like a black wad of phlegm he didn't know he was choking on.

He loves Daniel. Obviously, he does. Daniel is his little brother. _Enano_. His _hermanito._

But Daniel is also an anchor.

Even before things got fucked up with the cop, how many times did he have to tell his friends he couldn't hang out because he was on big-brother duty? When his mom left, how far down did he shove his broken heart because Big Brother Sean needed to be brave for Little Brother Daniel?

And then Dad got shot and they were on the run, and suddenly, he was all Daniel had. He had to be Dad too. Everything became about protecting Daniel and doing what was best for Daniel. Sean became a candle that was burning itself at both ends, and his little brother was the flame.

And Sean's candle burned itself out.

It feels like dragging a cheese grater across his heart to consider that loving his brother could also be a thing that was hurting him.

"Sean?" Max says. She slides a napkin over to him.

"Sorry, I got—it's nothing." He wipes at his eyes.

"It's cool. It happens."

"But, anyway, Daniel was the reason we had to run from the law. And the reason I made a lot of the worst decisions I did. But it all brought us closer, and he is literally the most important person in my life. And here, he doesn't really want anything to do with me. I don't really understand how. I don't think the person I am here would put Daniel first, ever."

"It sounds like you had to give up the person closest to you." Max sips at her latte, just a bit too long. Sean remembers the way she looked away in the visiting room of the prison, but now, he's not angry. He's not desperate. And he can hear the sadness in her voice, see that her eyes are those of someone who is much more broken than the people around her understand.

It's not an act. He gets that now.

"Are you talking about your friend Chloe?" Sean says.

Max nods. "She was more than a friend, actually."

"Girlfriend?" Sean says carefully.

Max shakes her head. Then shrugs. "I don't know. 'Soul mate' sounds too schmaltzy, but it's like that."

"I get you."

"Anyway," Max says, clearing her throat. "Your relationship with your brother—do you think that's a price you're willing to pay?"

"It is like having a piece of my heart that is straight-up missing, him not talking to me. But overall, he's okay, you know? He seems kind of sad, but it's sad in a normal fifteen-year-old way. Our dad is alive. If everyone is okay, but we're just a not very close, that seems like . . . I guess it's an okay price to pay." Sean looks away for a moment. "I, uh, I guess I'm okay with it."

"That doesn't quite sound big enough," Max says. She turns the stirrer in her latte. "When I did this, it was like the universe reacted in the biggest, most melodramatic, worst way. Did you say your brother was the reason you had to run from the cops?"

"Yeah," Sean sips his coffee. "He kind of . . . killed the cop that killed our dad."

"Wait, you said you were sixteen when that happened," Max says, counting on her fingers. "How does a nine-year-old boy kill a police officer?"

And Sean winces. It's the real elephant in the room, that sat there all of Christmas just sucking up all the space and oxygen. The thing he most does not want to think about, so much so, that saying it out loud feels like it will make it real. "Daniel kind of, sort of had telekinesis which activated when he saw our dad get shot," he says quietly.

"Your brother had powers too?" Max says. "Dude, you think maybe you should have led with that? What happened the first time he used them?"

"He, uh. . ." Sean rubs the back of his head. "He kind of blew up most of our front yard. The first time he used them was when he killed the cop on the day our dad died."

"And does he have his powers in this timeline?"

"I don't think so," Sean says. "Or maybe they haven't developed yet because nothing traumatic has happened to him. Or maybe he can use them, and he just doesn't tell me about it. He's clearly hiding something, but I have no idea what."

"Okay, okay," Max says. Then she says _okay_, like, ten more times. She squeezes the bridge of her nose, and strands of blue hair fall in her face. "Let me just get this straight. Your brother had psychokinetic powers, which were a big part of the reason that your life got dramatically messed up. And he doesn't seem to have them in this timeline because the first time he used them is the exact moment that you went back in time to change?"

Sean chews on his lip. "I mean, you're leaving out a _lot_ of nuance. . . "

"How actually fucking stupid are you?" She cuts him off as he tries to interject. "No, dude, it is 100-percent obvious that you have not paid shit yet. Are you sure you actually got that eye back? Because you must have a huge blindspot to not see this sitting right in front of you."

"I'm not fucking stupid, Max!" A woman with two kids at a nearby table glares at him like he's a shitty, abusive boyfriend starting a fight in the coffee shop. He takes a breath. "I'm not stupid," he says quietly. "I've had, like, three nightmares this past week just about Daniel's powers. The first time they went off, it was like a bomb, and I keep imagining them building up like pressure inside his head so that if something finally triggers them, it'll be like an atomic blast. You told me about the storm, Max. That it was going to destroy your whole town. And I am both very aware and very terrified that my storm could be inside my kid brother's brain." Sean lays his head on the table. It's cool and slick against his forehead.

Sean wonders if the woman with the kids is still glaring at him. He probably looks like a _manipulative_, shitty boyfriend with his head down. But all of this has been sifting in the back of his mind since Christmas. And if something _does_ happen, it's all on him.

He feels Max's hand on top of his. It's warm and surprisingly rough. "Look, dude," she says as he raises his head. "I shouldn't have said that. It's not cool for me to make you feel like a dumbass. I just have to be honest with you, and I have to impress upon you how serious this is. What I went through was—it was the worst thing that is ever going to happen to me, and I don't want this for someone else. I get this sense that there is a storm coming your way. It's only a matter of time until it catches you. And it will be bad."

"I know," Sean sighs. "I don't know how I know, but I do. Do you—do you think I should change things back? Because, Max, I don't think I can. I don't think I'm strong enough. I can't give up my dad. I can't go back to a life where my life is over. Maybe that's selfish. Maybe I _am_ a self-centered, shitty person." He lays his head down again. "Maybe I'm just not the person I need to be. I'm not the person Daniel needs me to be."

"I don't think you're a shitty person," Max says. "Look, I don't think you should have ever changed the past because, well, bad shit happens when you do. But since you have already done it . . . " She drums her fingers on the table. "I told you about Chloe and the storm, right?"

Sean sets his chin on his arms so he can look at her. "Yeah. You had to choose between saving everyone in your town or Chloe. It sounded like a real shitty choice."

"'Shitty choice' is an understatement. But there isn't a day that goes by that I don't question the choice I made. And if I had it to do all over again, I don't know. I think I might choose Chloe and let the storm just wipe everything else away." She sighs again, sort of bounces her fist anxiously on the table. "I guess what I'm getting at is, there isn't really a thing you _should_ do. There's just . . . what consequences are you prepared to live with?"

"I just wish I knew what those consequences were going to be," Sean says. "And I can feel it, that I'm going to find out soon. And it sucks because whatever happens . . . from here on out, it's all my fault"

# # #

Sean walks out with Max, and they stand outside the coffee shop waiting for her Lyft. Sean offers to give her a ride to her hotel, but she jokes that she doesn't get into cars with boys she's only met once in this timeline. "Actually, though, I kind of have one more piece of advice for you."

"Aw, jeeze, this isn't just another opportunity for you to call me stupid, is it?" he says, flashing a smile so she knows it's a joke.

"No, and I don't even know if this is good advice, but—maybe you should just accept things the way they are. A mistake I made, I think, is that I _kept_ messing with things. I tried to control everything, make it all exactly right. You say you are a _C_-minus person, but, dude, that's still a passing grade. Your life is better here. Your brother is growing up with a normal life. Maybe you should just make peace with the fact that all of this is good enough, and if you don't rock the boat, maybe the universe will let you get away with this."

"So you're saying I should just live with my little brother kind of hating my guts? Max, I don't know if you get how much it hurts, the way he looks at me with such disappointment."

"I kind of get it. I know how much it hurts when I remember the way Chloe looked at me and then I remember she'll never look at me like that again," Max says as her Lyft pulls up to the sidewalk. "It's just a thought. I don't know if the universe will really forgive you, but it might be worth a shot. Ultimately, it's your choice. What are you willing to live with? What is too much?"

"Isn't that, like, every choice in life, though?"

She smiles. "I'm glad I met you again, Sean Diaz. I'm sorry I called you stupid."

He chuckles. "Thanks for taking time to meet up with me, Max Caulfield. I'm sorry I turn into an emotional rage-baby every time we do this."

He waits until Max's car is down the street before he shoves his hands into his pockets and shuffles back to his. He sits down in the driver's seat, pulls out his phone to find some music for the drive back to Savannah, but then he just stops and rests his head on the steering wheel.

What is he going to do?

A part of him thinks he should change everything back, but the rest of him screams that he can't. It would be like trying to throw yourself into a fire.

So does he just wait around for Daniel's powers to come out? Probably at the worst time?

Or . . . does he test out Max's hypothesis. That if he accepts the consequences of this timeline's Sean's choices, if he gives up the few good things from his old life, maybe he'll get away with this. He glances at his cell phone. He could text Daniel right now, tell the kid to fuck off or something and probably seal the deal.

But, really, Sean has no idea what he is going to do. He just knows that whatever choice he makes, he is responsible for everything that happens next.

# # #

While Sean is meeting with Max, Daniel is on the opposite side of the country, sitting on a school bus with his forehead resting on the window. Beside him is some annoying seventh-grader who keeps quoting some obnoxious movie. Daniel used to always sit with Noah, but, well, not anymore.

It has snowed. Not enough to cancel school, but enough that it covers the sidewalk, and he leaves a trail of footprints from the bus stop to his house. When he gets home, he texts his dad like he always does to let him know he's okay.

Dad texts back, _Since you are home could you shovel the driveway for your papa? Por favor? You are one of my two favorite Diaz bros!_

So Daniel sighs and gets the shovel from the garage, and he starts scooping. It was a really bad day at school today, even worse than usual. Some asshole spilled Gatorade on his shoes in the hallway. He sat all alone at lunch. And he got a bad grade on his math test because he had a headache through the whole thing. He's halfway through shoveling the driveway when he feels his phone vibrate. He takes a break and leans on the side of the garage, and he checks the message.

It's from Sean.

_I was just thinking about you bro. Hope you're okay text me whenever you want okay?_

And . . . Daniel just does not understand his brother. As a kid, he never understood why Sean didn't want to hang out with him. And now, he doesn't understand why Sean keeps pretending like he does. And then there was that whole nightmare over Christmas and the stuff in Sean's sketchbook about Daniel having powers.

There's rock sitting in the snow near the end of the driveway. It would be cool if Daniel did have powers, right? He could be some kind of superhero. Maybe he could make all the bullshit going on in his life go away.

He concentrates on the rock. Imagines how much it weighs.

And he tries to lift it with his mind.

* * *

**Soundtrack – Outro: "Hazy Shade of Winter" **

**cover by The Bangles**

* * *

**This has been "The Bravest Wolf in the World"**

**A ****_Life is Strange 2_**** Fan Fiction**

**Episode Two: The Unknown**

* * *

_look around_

_leaves are brown_

_and the sky_

_is a hazy shade of winter_

_hang on to your hopes, my friend_

_that's an easy thing to say_

_but if your hopes should pass away_

_simply pretend_

_that you can build them again_


	19. Episode Three: The Wilderness - One

_Once _ _upon a time in a wild, wild world, there were two wolf brothers living in their home lair with their papa wolf._

_They lived in peace . . . __until hunters took their dad away._

_And nothing bad ever happened to them._

_But the big brother had a secret. _

_He was no ordinary wolf . . . but a super wolf who had changed the past._

_And he could still remember the way things used to be._

_In the other life, the two wolf brothers faced many hardships._

_They lost their papa to hunters._

_They had to leave their home._

_They wandered for days and nights. _

_And danger always followed them._

_In the end, the big brother let himself be taken by the hunters, so the little one could be safe._

_Though he was sad in this other life, the big brother felt closer to the little one._

_In this new world the big brother created, it felt like the little brother was not even part of his pack._

_A doe warned him that this might be the price for saving their papa . . . for the better life for the two wolf brothers._

_Still, the big brother missed the little one so much that he would risk everything to have his little brother back._

**Episode Three – The Wilderness**

_Chapter One_

**Soundtrack – Intro: "Savior" (Ghost Note Symphonies Version)**

**by Rise Against**

* * *

_Seattle, Washington_

_March 2023_

_Three Months After Sean Diaz Changed the Past_

Daniel stomps his foot so hard that Dad's glass of water rattles against the coffee table, and he immediately feels stupid. Little kids stomp their feet. They throw temper tantrums and pout. He's not going to win this argument with his dad if he is acting like a stupid fucking child, but his dad _will not_ listen to him.

"I don't want to waste my spring break going on this stupid road trip with Sean just because none of his friends can tolerate being around him," Daniel says. "And it's on my birthday!"

"Your brother would come _in_ on your birthday. You would leave afterwards. Why not think of it as a kind of present?" Dad says from the couch, in that joking tone he uses in arguments. He does it to diffuse tension, but it's also infuriating, like he's not taking things seriously.

"You can't just kidnap someone and call it a present, Dad."

"What do you have going on that is so important? Wasting your spring break cooped up in your room?" Dad pats the seat beside him, and at first, Daniel pretends he doesn't see it. But his father keeps sitting there, patiently patting the couch, and the conversation isn't going to move forward until Daniel sits down. So he sighs and throws himself into the cushions.

He feels his father's hand rest on his back. It's weird how it feels the same as it did when he was little, like his entire body could still fit inside his father's palm.

"I worry about you, _mijo_," Dad says. "I love the time we spend together, but you should be with your friends, too. You spend most weekends here, usually locked in your bedroom. You know you have been wearing the same shirt for four days, right?"

"It's only been three . . ." Daniel says weakly. "I usually wear a hoodie, so it's not like people know."

"Tell me, why do you not want to go on this road trip with Sean?" Dad asks.

"I just don't want to. Isn't that enough?"

"You said I was not listening to you. I am trying to listen to you now."

Daniel's shoulders sink as he stares at his socked feet. "Sean and I don't get along. Most of the time, he acts annoyed to be around me. And then, if we do spend time together, we always get pissed at each other. I don't want us to get into some huge, stupid fight and be three states away and trapped in a car together."

"I hear you. I know Sean has disappointed you, and the two of you aren't as close as when you were _niños_. The two of you did used to be closer, though."

There's a loose thread near the pocket of Daniel's jeans. He tugs at it, wraps it around his fingers. "Sean got to high school and decided he didn't want anything to do with me. And it just got worse when he moved to Savannah. And I know you're going to tell me that he's been trying harder lately, but it's like he's pretending that we have a very different life than we do. Like, it really sucks to look up to someone and have them basically tell you they don't give a shit, and then he just comes home over Christmas and tries to act like everything is cool between us, and that . . . sucks more. Pretending everything is okay when it's not is worse somehow." He feels his father's arm around him. He lets himself get pulled against his father's side. Part of him feels like he should resist. He's almost sixteen; little kids get held by their _papás_. "I'm sorry, Dad. I know you think Sean is the perfect son."

Dad laughs so hard that his chest crashes against Daniel's ear. "I do not think Sean is perfect. I just choose to focus on both of my sons' strengths and try to ignore their faults, like how I am ignoring how stinky you are now that I'm sitting so close to you, Daniel. When was the last time you showered? And covering yourself with Axe does not count as showering."

"Dad, come on. It's been, like, four days, but I've been busy with homework and . . . " And not much else. Dad knows he hasn't been busy with shit.

"I think going on an adventure with your brother would be good for you," Dad says. "I think it would be good for Sean, also. If I can be honest, I worry about him too. Maybe I am an old man, so I worry too much. But a bit before Christmas, Sean started acting differently. When he was here, he seemed changed. Like he was my son but not the son I know. I can't quite explain it. Do you understand what I mean?"

"Uh, yeah, I do," Daniel says. "Sean started crying in the middle of _Lord of the Rings_, and it was super weird. He also had this freaky nightmare where he was shaking like he was having a seizure or something."

And there was also Sean's sketchbook, the story Sean seemed to be writing about the two of them on the run after their dad dies. A story where Daniel has superpowers. A story that isn't real.

"Also, where he wants to go, what he wants to do on this road trip . . . it surprised me," Dad says. "It really surprised me."

"Wait . . . why?" Daniel says. "What does Sean want to do on this road trip?"

Dad raises his eyebrows. "You don't know?"

Daniel digs his toes into their thin carpet and yanks the loose thread from his jeans. "Sean said something about going to the Southwest. I assumed he wanted to see the Grand Canyon. Or maybe what's left of that stupid border wall. I, uh, haven't actually texted him back about it."

"Oh. Well, then." Daniel feels his father's hand rest gently on his knee "I really do understand why you hesitate to spend time with him, _mijo_. I will not make you go if that is what you decide, but before you make up your mind, you should actually talk to your brother. I know it is hard to give him another chance, but sometimes those chances that are hardest to give are the ones we need to give the most."

Dad sets his lips against the top of Daniel's head. It's not a kiss. His dad hasn't kissed him since he was really little. But it's another thing that makes Dad feel big enough to make Daniel feel safe.

Except dad pulls back, and his nostrils flare. His lip curls in a grimace. "Seriously, Daniel, you _have_ to take a shower tonight."

# # #

After his talk with Dad, Daniel pulls on his shoes and a hoodie and goes to their front yard to bounce a soccer ball off his knees. It usually helps him think, but this afternoon, the ball goes everywhere, completely out of his control. He was never athletic, but he thinks he was better at this when he was little.

Then the ball pops him in the face.

"Fuck!" he shouts and hurls the ball against the fence at the edge of their patio. The ball ricochets off the wood and right into his nose. "Motherfucker!" he screams, rubbing his upper lip, checking for blood.

He's not bleeding, but he throws himself onto the grass.

"Fuck you," he says, flipping off the ball. But it's not the ball he's frustrated at. It's . . . everything

His tenth grade year sucks. His friends want nothing to do with him. The senior in his Spanish class's asshole buddies started picking on him in the lunchroom. His grades are mostly _B's_, but there's this constant voice in his head that says he should be doing better. Especially in math. Everything just feels so pointless that even taking a shower or changing clothes seems hard.

So Dad is right. If Daniel stays here, he's going to waste his spring break in his room, wrapped in blankets, sleeping too much, maybe rewatching _The Office_ for the seventh time. Which is a terrible way to start off being sixteen. On a road trip with Sean, he might get to see something besides his bedroom ceiling. And if they do get pissed at each other, at least feeling angry would be a change of pace from feeling pathetic and tired.

He reaches for his phone, and he opens the message chain with Sean. Sean has sent him a tower of texts over the past three months, and Daniel has barely replied to any of them.

Daniel keeps expecting Sean to lose interest, to drop the ball. But every other day there's a message saying hey or checking in, consistent, even though Daniel hasn't given Sean much reason to be.

So he types, _If you want to talk about the trip we can. Facetime me when you get the chance._

And he has barely hit _Send_ when his phone rings. He answers, and Sean's face pops onto the screen. Sean is wearing a Target work shirt, and there are stalls behind him, like he's in the public restroom. Through the tiny speakers of the phone, a toilet flushes. "That was not me," Sean says.

His hair is different, too. The sides have been shaved, but the front hangs down in kind of a lazy mohawk. It actually looks pretty cool, especially with his gages. "Nice hair, bro," Daniel says.

"You like it? I had one of my roommates do it. I could probably cut yours like it next time we hang out."

"No thanks. I think I like my ears not bleeding." Daniel runs his hand through his hair; it feels like greasy spaghetti. "So, tell me about this road trip?"

"Well, I know you don't want to go."

"Did Dad tell you?"

"Yeah, but I figured it out because you answered zero of my text messages."

Daniel cringes. He knows what it's like to have your brother ignore you, and it sucks. He tries to tell himself that it's just payback, but, no, it was a dick move on his part. "Well, the judge is listening. What's your case?"

"Okay, Judge Diaz," Sean says, and the background spins revealing mirrors and urinals. "I have two points. First, I want to stop in Beaver Creek to visit our grandparents."

"Claire and Stephen? I've never met them."

"I know! And you should. They're cool. Okay, they're not cool, but they're nice and worth knowing. I promise that they are going to love you. And they might have some information about where we are going next. Which is Arizona."

"Why would they have info about Arizona?"

Sean takes a deep breath, and the air he slowly releases rumbles through the phone's speakers. Then he says, "Because their daughter is there."

It takes a moment for what Sean has said to sink in.

"Wait," Daniel says, sitting up in the grass. "You mean Karen? Our mom?"

"I know she was in Arizona five years ago. It seems like as good a place as any to look for her."

"Dude, okay, hold up, slow down." Daniel stands up, and he does a loop around their fence, across their patio, and back into their yard. "I have a million questions. How did you find her? How long have you known where she is? Why do you even want to talk to her? You have always hated her for leaving us."

Sean nods. "All good questions. But ones that will take a long time to answer, approximately the time it would take for us to drive from Seattle down to Arizona. Look, I will happily talk to you about this all you want, but I am technically not on break yet, and my boss is going to murder me if she catches me 'slacking off.' I'll call tonight, okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Daniel says. "Tonight is good."

"Will you actually answer this time, _enano_?"

Daniel sighs. He still doesn't like that name. But he also doesn't like realizing he's been the jerk. "Yeah, bro, I will."

Sean throws up some horns and makes a dumb face before he hangs up, and it actually makes Daniel smile. He lies back down in the grass. It's early spring, and the air is still cool. The sun feels warm against his face. He stares up at the sky. A few gray storm clouds smudge the placid blue.

They're going to find Karen. They're going to find his mom.

He has always wondered about her. What she was like. Why she left. He has a shoebox under his bed of _Mom Stuff_ he has collected over the years, like a detective storing evidence. Because his brother and dad don't talk about her, not really. What their dad said about the star book at Christmas were the first nice words Daniel has heard about Karen since maybe ever.

And Dad is right—there is something up with Sean. Sean _hates_ their mother. So much so that he always refused to refer to her as their mom. And as Daniel has grown up, he's understood that hatred better. After all, who just abandons their family like Karen did?

Daniel is still clutching his phone when it vibrates in his palm. It's a text message from Sean:

_One more thing. The most important thing. I know I haven't been the best brother to you. I've probably been a real shitty brother to you actually. But I don't just want to do this trip. I want to do this trip with you. It has to be with you. Please come with me. Por favor mi hermano. (I know you don't know Spanish use Google translate to look it up haha)_

Daniel rereads the text message a couple of times, not sure how he feels about it. But what else is he going to do over spring break with no friends, no life? So he sends back:

_Sure hermano. I'm in_

* * *

_but seldom do these words ring true_

_when i'm constantly failing you_

_like walls that we just can't break through_

_until we disappear_

_so tell me now_

_if this ain't love_

_then how do we get out?_

_'__cause I don't know_

_that's when she said_

_i don't hate you, boy, _

_i just want to save you_

_while there's still something left to save_


	20. Episode Three: The Wilderness - Two

Maybe, just maybe, Sean Diaz's life is finally coming together.

His brother is in for their spring break road trip. The internship at Nickelodeon looks like it will pan out. And he is currently having coffee with Sarah.

Sarah was shocked a couple of months ago when he texted her asking if they could talk. And after some coaxing, she agreed to meet up. Sean apologized profusely for being such a dick during their break up and emphasized that he did not expect her to forgive him. But he gave her the chance to say what she needed to in order to get over him.

And that conversation was hard.

Like, he has stared down the barrels of guns, and that didn't seem as hard as standing there, getting verbally punched in the gut for things he did but didn't really do.

But he and Sarah had been friends before they started dating, and, after some crying, they decided to give being friends again a go.

And it's weird. Even though Sean wouldn't say he lived this life, it really is becoming _his_ life. All those old feelings about Sarah, the way she makes him laugh, the way bad things just seem to disappear when he is with her—those are all still inside him.

When they meet up for coffee every couple of weeks, Sarah walks in, and a dumb grin always stretches across his face.

The coffee shop isn't too busy today, but it's filled with background conversation and the clicking of laptop keys. Sarah has changed the purple streak in her hair to blue, and Sean remembers helping her dye it blue once while they were dating. They did it in her bathroom, and he was in his boxers so he wouldn't stain his clothes. She was also wearing a pair of his boxers. He was super careful, but as he combed the goopy dye through her hair, he dropped some of it on his chest.

The sparse patch of hair between his nipples was blue for two weeks. Sarah's slender fingers would play with it as they lay in bed, watching videos on her laptop, and his breath would catch as her skin brushed against his.

"So Diego told me he, Toby, and Pete are going down to Daytona Beach for spring break," Sarah says. Her brown eyes shine through the steam rising from her coffee cup. "It's senior year. The last hurrah. Why aren't you going?"

"I'm going on this kind of road trip with Daniel," Sean says, pouring a sugar packet into his drink.

"Daniel? Your little brother?"

"_Sí, Daniel es mi hermanito._"

"I thought he got on your nerves."

"Yeah, but, he can be a cool kid. He's turning sixteen, and I kind of miss the little dude."

"Sounds a little codependent to me," Sarah says.

"How is hanging out with my little bro codependent? Wait, does_ codependent_ not mean what I think it does?"

"Well . . ." Sarah turns a stirrer in her coffee, even though she hasn't added anything to it. "The way you would talk about it, it sometimes sounded like your dad maybe put too much responsibility on you for watching your brother growing up. It sounded a little unfair to put that on someone who was a kid himself."

"It's not like that," Sean insists. "Dad was raising us both on his own. He's basically Superman, but he's not a god. He just needed me to help out."

"I wasn't criticizing your father, Sean. I know Esteban Diaz is awesome," she says, with a smile. "But Daniel, even when you'd say you missed him, it sounded like he was, I dunno, an _obligation_ not a person. It's just weird that you're blowing off a trip with your best friends and boyfriend. Like, are you going on this trip with Daniel because you _want_ to or because you feel like you _have_ to?"

"Okay, first, Toby is not my boyfriend."

Sarah rolls her eyes and smiles. "Sure, buddy."

"And, second, I'm going because I want to. Obviously I want to." But as he says it, something about it doesn't feel true. Like, yes, he does want to spend time with his brother, but he also _needs_ to be closer to him. These past few months, it's felt like part of his heart is missing. But not only that, there's this sense of . . . guilt? He's not sure how to explain it, but it's like a cold, damp towel that has sat on his chest—a feeling that by not being closer to Daniel he's somehow letting the kid down as a brother. That he's somehow letting Dad down as a son.

Like he's letting everybody down.

"Well, then, it is sweet you want to spend time with your little . . . _enano_? That's your word for him, right?" Sarah says. "So what are the Diaz boys going to do?"

"We are going to find our mom."

Sarah is sipping her coffee as he says it, and she hacks and coughs and wheezes, so long that Sean looks around for someone who might know the Heimlich maneuver. "I'm sorry," she says, still clearing her throat, "did you say you're going to find your mom? _The_ Karen Diaz? You _hate_ her. Do you know how high I had to get you before you would say anything about Karen other than 'fuck her'?"

"It's Karen Reynolds, actually. And I think I know where she is, and I think I can make things right with her." It's not really that Sean _thinks_ he can make things right, it's that he _knows_. He's already made amends with her. He doesn't see why he can't do it again. "Daniel's never met her. I'm sure he wonders about her. I thought this would be something nice I could do for him, help him get some closure."

"This is. Wow. This is unexpected. Is this part of your inexplicable Year of Personal Growth?" Sarah asks.

"I'm just trying to be a better person. For me and for the people I care about."

"Well, you're always full of surprises, Sean Diaz." His hand sits on the table, and suddenly Sarah sets hers on top of it. On reflex, he traces the lines of her fingers with his thumb the way he has hundreds of times.

They're staring at each other from across the table, and he notices her lips, remembers the way they felt soft on his. Remembers the way she felt when he held her close. The way her chest felt against his, as he set the laptop aside and kissed her when his chest hair was dyed blue.

"I'm sorry," Sarah says, suddenly pulling her hand away. Her voice shifts, suddenly, jarringly softer. "I don't think we should do this anymore."

"We shouldn't do what anymore?"

"I think we should take, like, a break or something."

"A break from what?" Sean asks, confused. "From drinking coffee?"

"No. From trying to be friends."

He blinks. "What?"

"I thought I could do it. I really did." Sarah wrings her hands anxiously. "But whenever we are together, I just feel the old pull of things. I want to reach out and hold your hand while we're walking together. When we hug, I notice all the extra space between us that shouldn't be there. I look into your eyes, and I think about how that's what I saw after we kissed. I don't think I can move on if we keep hanging out."

"I mean, I feel that too," Sean says, playing with the wrapper of the empty sugar packet. "But, I dunno, things with me and Toby are . . . well, we aren't boyfriends. And I don't know what is up with you and that guy Graham, but if we're still into each other . . . maybe we should get back together?"

"Absolutely not. Sean, you cut my heart out with an x-acto knife then ran it over with your car. Like, you put the car in forward then reverse, just backing over it repeatedly."

"Okay, getting back together is a bad idea."

"And then," Sarah continues, "it's like my heart got stuck under your car, so you drove through a field of broken glass and cactuses."

"I get the picture. You can stop."

"And then you dug it out from under the car with a shovel you used to scoop dog shit, poured salt on top of it, and lit it on—"

"Okay! I get the point. I was a dick when I broke up with you," he sighs. "I was just trying to say I still have feelings for you too."

"I know. I can see it in the way you look at me." She smiles, but her eyes are no longer shining through the steam of her coffee. "This sucks, you know? Because I really do think you're awesome, minus the whole breaking my heart thing."

"But we were friends before we were dating," Sean says. "Maybe we just need more time to get back to that. I don't see why we can't be friends again. This—the whole getting coffee, hanging out—it's been going well! We just have to try harder."

Sarah sets her hand on top of his again, but this time it doesn't feel like a girlfriend. It feels like someone consoling you. He remembers his grandmother doing this when he met her again in Beaver Creek, when she said she was sorry that his dad had died. "I really want us to be friends, but I don't think we can. I would love for us to just hit rewind, go back to how things used to be. But life doesn't work that way."

"Yeah, it can," Sean says quietly.

Sarah shakes her head. "Right now, I think us being 'just friends' is in the past. And we both need to move forward. And trying to bring that back . . . it's like making a shitty reboot of a good movie, you know?"

And Sean sits there as she gathers her things, feeling helpless. It's like being a little kid, and you're too small to stop your parents from moving you to someplace you don't want to be. Like waking up one morning when you're eight and someone you care about is no longer there, and you couldn't make them stay. He wants to tell her to stop.

But there's nothing he can say because he knows she's right.

Sure, he can travel through time. But there are just some things you can't go back to, no matter how hard you try. And if you do, you just make things worse.

Sarah stands up, coffee cup in hand and purse over her shoulder. The strand of blue hair falls onto her face—the same one he helped her dye a summer ago. "I hope your road trip with your brother goes well. And that whatever is out there, you find what you are looking for with your mom."

# # #

The thing with Sarah sucks, but Sean can't dwell on it because, holy shit, road trips are logistical nightmares.

First, he has to do double-shifts at Target to justify taking an entire week off. And, just because he has a break from school doesn't mean he has a break from schoolwork. He loses sleep trying to get on top of projects and still thinks he'll have a few things to do on the road. Though he has a grasp of most of his memories in this timeline, he has no idea how he has gotten through art school with his shitty-ass laptop running a bootlegged version of Windows. Then there's the whole trying to put samples together for Nickelodeon thing, and his anxiety medication doesn't fully stop the fluttery fight-or-flight feeling ever-present in his heart.

And what will they do about food?

Where do they sleep each night?

He can't afford even the sleaziest of motels more than a couple of times, so he buys the cheapest tent in his Target. He does more math than he has in years trying to figure out how to afford gas. And how does he make it all the way to Seattle, down to Arizona, and back to Savannah without having to drive two-days straight with no sleep?

When he and Daniel were on the run, he worried. A lot. But at points, it was sheer desperation trying to get through the next meal or the next night with no time to think about it. And if things got real bad, he could always just steal. It was almost easier to do this with no money rather than not-quite-enough money.

One night, Sean is at his drafting table, working on a storyboard, Facetiming his father, and stressing out about paying for gas when Dad says, "Why don't you take my car? It doesn't make sense for you to drive up here from Georgia. Your _padre_ did a good job, but your car is not held together with magic."

"I can't ask you to do that," Sean says, grinding an eraser against his drawing, which isn't coming out right.

"I will have Juan give me a ride to work for the week. It will be a good bonding experience for us."

"I dunno." Sean blows the eraser dust, which scatters like heavy snowflakes. "I'd have to fly up, and I can't afford a plane ticket either."

"Sean, I will buy you a plane ticket."

"I can't ask you to do that either," Sean says. "It's too much money, and this was my idea. So I have to figure everything out, I made this a problem, and I can't let Daniel down, and . . . "

That fluttery, fight-or-flight feeling tingles in Sean's chest. It's like his heart is beating out of rhythm.

"Sean, look at me," Dad says. "Breathe. You don't have to do things all on your own. Buying you a plane ticket means I get to spend more time with my oldest son. You are not letting anyone down by letting me help you."

Sean tries to refuse again, but Dad won't let him, eventually wearing him down into saying yes. And Sean still feels guilty about it, like he's a goalie who lets the game-winning point slip by him only to be saved by the clock running out in time.

"Thank you," Sean says, redrawing lines on the storyboard.

"_De nada_," Dad says. "I appreciate how hard you are trying to be here for your brother."

"That's the goal," Sean says.

But after they hang up, he glances at the picture on his wall, the one he remembers from his twenty-first birthday. It's him at the bar with his Savannah friends, including Sarah, just before the two of them started dating.

Back when they could still be friends.

And he thinks about what Max said in Augusta. That maybe a _C-minus_ life needs to be good enough. That maybe if he accepts that he and Daniel are not close, then maybe the universe won't punish him. There's no way she can know that. It's just an idea.

But it's an idea that feels true to him.

And, though he tries to write it off as his anxiety, he can't shake the feeling that this road trip, that his being stupid and selfish and going for everything, is going to blow up in his face. That it's going to put someone he loves in danger.


	21. Episode Three: The Wilderness - Three

After his last class before spring break, Sean swings by his apartment to grab his backpack. He shoves his sketchbook inside, and as he is walking out his bedroom door, he sees _the_ sketchbook, the one from his other life, sitting on his desk.

He has a flight to catch. He doesn't have time to dawdle. But he hesitates, and he can't walk through the door until he shoves this other sketchbook into his bag.

# # #

Sean boards his flight, survives a miserable layover at O'Hare, endures hours of a baby screaming in the seat behind him, and finally lands in Seattle. Even though he has talked to his father almost every day for the past three months, Dad being there to pick him up—Dad being alive—still punches his heart. Like at Christmas, Sean's hug is so tight that his old man's bones pop, but this time, Sean doesn't cry. Maybe, finally, he is getting used to life being okay.

When Sean and his father walk upstairs into their house, Daniel is at the kitchen counter, leaning over a round cake decorated with green and blue icing. "It's about time," Daniel says. "Dad wouldn't let me have my cake or open the package you sent until you got here. He basically said I couldn't turn sixteen without you. I thought I was going to be stuck being fifteen forever."

Sean chuckles, sets his backpack on the floor, and walks up to his brother to pull him into a hug. It doesn't matter if Daniel doesn't want one; Sean needs to give him one.

But, though there's some awkwardness, Daniel actually hugs him back.

Sean presses his face into Daniel's neck. The kid's hair is wet, and he smells like body wash. But he doesn't squirm away, not even when Sean holds him by the shoulders to take a better look at him.

Jesus, the kid has grown, like, two inches since Christmas. Sean isn't 100% sure who the taller Diaz brother is now. However, though Daniel has the height of a man, it's striking how his face is still that of a little boy's.

Today, Sean's little brother is sixteen; sixteen was the last time Sean was a kid. With one cop's bullet, Sean Diaz's innocent, naïve little life was shattered, and he had to become an adult. Immediately. Is this how he looked back then? When they were on the run and sleeping in the cold? Was he really this much of a child when he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders?

Those first few months, when he was sure Daniel was dreaming, Sean would cry himself to sleep over missing track and Lyla and getting high with his friends and going to concerts, and eventually, he knew it was dumb to cry over all of that because he would never have it back. When he gave himself up at the border, he knew things wouldn't be okay. He knew he would go to jail. He had promised not to lie to Daniel ever again, but he's pretty sure he lied to Daniel when he said that it would be all right.

Since things were fucked for him, the only thing that mattered was giving Daniel a normal life. A life where Daniel got to experience awkward makeouts and worrying about GPAs and late nights listening to a favorite song and getting his heart broken and all of those bittersweet, wonderful things about being a kid that Sean had ripped away from him.

Seeing his brother, standing here, sixteen and getting to be a normal kid in a normal life—it makes all of the bullshit worth it.

Every fucking scar.

Every fucking bruise.

Every sleepless night.

Every lost eye.

All of it. Worth it.

"Happy birthday, _hermanito_," Sean says.

"Thanks, bro," Daniel says, and he wipes at his cheek.

It takes Sean a moment to realize it's a signal to him, that he's the one with a single tear sliding down his face.

Daniel gestures to a box by the front door. "So, can I open this present now?"

As Dad is saying yes, Sean picks up the box, which is about the size of his torso, and sets it on the counter next to the cake.

Daniel rips through the tape with the car keys Dad hands him. Inside is another package, this one wrapped in what is technically Christmas paper because it was the cheapest at Sean's Target. When Daniel shreds through it, he lifts up . . . "A backpack?"

"It's like mine," Sean says, pointing to his bag on the floor. But not only is it the same as the backpack he brought from Savannah, it's like the one Brody gave them when they were on the road. That fucking backpack came to be everything when Sean was carrying his entire world on his shoulders. "I know it's kind of a weird gift, but I figured you could use it on this trip. And after you graduate high school, you might travel or go off to school, and it's just good to have something dependable to keep your stuff with you. Mine's been . . . a real life-saver."

"I like it. It's cool." Daniel says, turning it over. Something inside rustles. He unzips one of the compartments, dumps the bag, and twenty Choco-Crisps fall out. "Dude! Awesome! Thanks!"

"The other surprise is that I drew a penis on your bag," Sean laughs, "but I'm not going to tell you where."

Sean shows Daniel all the different compartments and explains how he organizes things in the backpack while Dad starts inserting candles into the birthday cake. And Sean's heart feels warm because Daniel actually likes the present. He's actually done something _right_ with his brother in this life.

That's when Sean notices all of the grocery bags covering their dinner table. There are about ten of them, and they seem to be full of food and snacks. There's also a giant case of bottled water, a cooler, and two of their old sleeping bags.

"What's all this?" Sean asks.

"Supplies for our trip," Daniel says. "Dad kind of freaked out at the store because he doesn't think we can take care of ourselves."

"Well, we have never been on our own before," Sean laughs.

"The worst part, though," Daniel says, "is that Dad wouldn't buy us any tequila. Now, I ask you—is it really a wild, spring break road trip without the tequila?"

"I know your brother intends to be nothing but a good influence and role model," Dad says. He has finished sticking the candles into the cake, and he's opening and closing drawers, searching for a lighter. "Sean would never let my sweet, innocent baby boy do something as morally corrupt as drink alcohol."

"That's true," Daniel says, smirking. "He'll probably just shove weed in my mouth and try to use me as a bong."

"Okay," Sean says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "First, think about the words you are saying. If I used you as a bong, where would I put my mouth? That is so gross, dude. And second, you and Dad act like I am just a total 'four-twenty-blaze-it stoner', but I have never smoked as much pot as you think I do."

"My son, I don't think that Febreeze is the miracle spray you thought it was in high school," Dad says.

Daniel makes a show of inhaling deeply. "And I can smell it on you right now, bro."

Sean rolls his eyes. But then his Dad says that he can't find anything to light the candles, so Sean goes to his backpack and pulls out his Puerto Lobos lighter.

"You snuck a lighter through airport security?" Daniel says. "Not really doing a lot to clear your character, stoner boy."

Sean gives his brother a shove, Daniel laughs, and Sean lights the candles on the birthday cake. And, even though Sean is the butt of all of the jokes, it's still good to be home. It's good to have a dad and brother to make jokes about him.

# # #

After they demolish the cake and clean up, Daniel goes to his room to pack his new backpack for their road trip, and Sean sits down with his dad on the couch.

"It seems like Daniel had a pretty good birthday," Sean says.

"This was his first good day in a while," Dad says. "I might make him an appointment with Dr. Martinez after you boys get back."

Sean knows that name. The fog on his memories has mostly cleared, but he still has to concentrate to pull her up. She's the doctor Dad took him to during his first year of art school, when he was home during winter break. She gave him the prescription for his anxiety medication. "Do you think Daniel is depressed or something?"

"He seems . . . _sad_ is not the right word," Dad says. "It is like the light inside him has dimmed a little."

Sean rubs his hands together, picks at his thumbnail. In the other life, Daniel isn't perfectly happy—who could be after everything?—but he doesn't have a dim light. In fact, he's pretty confident. Sometimes annoyingly so. Some things would have been so much easier if Daniel had just done what Sean said instead of doing his own thing.

"Do you think it has to do with me?" Sean asks.

"Why would Daniel's depression, if he has it, have something to do with you?" Dad asks.

Sean shrugs. "We got into a couple of fights when I was up for Christmas, and I know he feels like we're not really close and that he can't count on me. Maybe if, I dunno, if I had been there for him, been a better brother, maybe he would feel better about himself."

Dad sighs. "Sean, that is a bad way to think. It is selfish and self-centered."

Sean cringes. _Self-centered_. That's what people think he is here. Someone who isn't reliable, doesn't put the people he cares about first. He heard it from Toby and from Daniel. Lyla, too, sort of. It hurts most to hear it from his dad, though.

He feels Dad's hand on his shoulder.

"The world does not revolve around you, _mijo_," Dad continues. "If something bad happens, that does not mean it is your fault or that it is your responsibility. Your brother is sad right now, but that does not mean it is something you did. You cannot take the weight of everything on your back. If you do that, you will not be able to carry anything because your back will be broken."

Sean nods, sniffles. Ends up sitting there under the weight of his father's hand, which doesn't feel heavy, but like it's actually making the weight he's been carrying since he was sixteen lighter.

"If anything, you might have a chance to help your brother feel better about things," Dad says. "Let me say this, officially, as both yours and Daniel's father: Do not let Daniel drink or smoke marijuana. And you, Sean, should smoke a lot less than you do."

"Come on." Sean rolls his eyes. "I'm not _that_ big of a stoner."

"Sure, sure," Dad says. "However, unofficially . . . I remember being young. When I was fourteen, my older cousin let me have my first beer. It is a good memory I have of him. I do not think it would be bad if Daniel had memories like that of you."

"Wait, wait . . . let me get this straight," Sean says. As Dad's words sink in, he leans back into the corner of their sectional and crosses his arms. "You spend my whole life being like 'Sean, you have to be responsible for your brother, _mijo_,' and now you're telling me to get him totally plastered?"

"I did not say that," Dad says, raising his finger. "I implied that sometimes trouble can bring you closer to someone and that I think it would be good for you to be closer to your brother. And I know you are a good man, Sean. I trust your judgment."

"I can't believe you're the same guy who reamed me out when you found my weed in high school," Sean says.

"You would be surprised at how often I was pretending to be angrier than I was. I just wanted you to turn out okay."

"I hope I did," Sean says. He feels a heaviness in his heart, one like the sadness he felt in prison. "Thanks, by the way. For saying I'm a good man."

"You are," Dad says. "You have always made me proud, but this year in particular, you seem to have grown up a lot in a short time. I was surprised when you said you wanted to go find your mother. It is good for you to try to let go of your anger with her. However, I worry that . . . I want you not to get your hopes up too high before you meet her again."

"Don't worry, Dad," Sean says. "I'm not expecting her to hug me and start crying or to say she's 'sorry' or even that she missed me. I just want her to know that we're okay. And that it would be nice to have some kind of relationship with her, you know?"

Dad nods. "How did you find her?"

"That's a long story."

"We have time."

"I, uh, have a friend at school who is good at looking people up," Sean says, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Is that the truth?"

"Uh, yeah. . . ."

"Have you spoken with your mother?"

"No . . . "

"Sean, I am not going to feel betrayed if the answer is yes."

"I haven't!" Sean says, and it is _technically_ true. Even though he just spoke to her in person a few months ago, in this timeline, he hasn't seen her since he was eight.

"Why is it so important to keep this a secret from me?" Dad asks, and there's a wounded look in his eyes.

Sean sighs. "You know how, over Christmas, we talked about how a bunch of bad things happened? And that I wasn't ready to talk about them? Something happened in there that made me not want to be angry at Mom anymore. And I am still not ready to talk to you about it, even though I want to. I wish I could tell you everything."

"You can, you know. Tell me everything."

"I know. I just . . . can't. Not yet. Is that okay?"

"It is okay," Dad says, and he reaches over Sean to pull him into a hug. "Whatever happened, I can tell it is eating at you. If you will not talk to me about it, you should talk to someone. Are you going to therapy?"

"I don't have time for therapy."

"Have you talked to any of your friends? What about that boy who is your boyfriend but 'not-really' your boyfriend?"

"Dad, come on, Toby isn't—I haven't talked to Toby about this, either."

"Well, then, how about your brother?"

Sean laughs. Then he realizes his dad is serious. "Daniel? He's a kid. I'm the big brother. I'm supposed to look after him, and he has his own stuff going on. I can't dump this on him."

"Your brother is growing up," Dad says. "And, I know it seems odd, but sometimes having a chance to be strong for someone else allows you to be strong for yourself."

Sean almost laughs. How many times did he focus on being strong for Daniel so he could ignore how absolutely fucking terrified he was himself?

"You know, your mother leaving was . . . it was hard on me," Dad says quietly. "I don't know how well I was able to keep it together for you, but having you to be strong for—it helped. It kept me from becoming unraveled by my sadness. I tried to do the same for you. I put a lot of responsibility on you for Daniel, not just because I couldn't do this alone, but because I hoped that being strong for your _hermanito_ would help you be strong for yourself. I do not know if that was always the right thing. Maybe kids should not have to be strong. Maybe I should not have put that on your shoulders. Then, _mijo_, you would not be trying to break your back by taking on everything."

Sean's father suddenly clasps his hands together, stares at them. His eyes look far away.

It's weird to see Dad not be Superman. And even weirder, an old feeling in Sean's chest flares up like an ember. He isn't sure what it is. Anger? Resentment? Why would he feel that about his dad?

"Hey, Dad, you did good, okay?" Sean says, pushing the feeling back down. "You already said I was a good man. That means you did good, right?"

"I suppose you are right," Dad says, his voice still distant.

"So is there anything you want me to say to Mom?" Sean says, changing the subject. "If we find her, that is?"

Dad stares off for a long time, so long that Sean almost believes his father has not thought about this every day for fifteen years. "Tell her that I hope she found what she was looking for. And that it would make me happy to know that she is happy as well. And that I am . . . sorry for the things I said, the last time we spoke. And that if she wanted to be a part of our lives, then that would not be so bad."


	22. Episode Three: The Wilderness - Four

The next morning, the Diaz family gets up at 6:00 AM on a Saturday so Sean and Daniel can get on the road.

Dad, still in a pair of pajama pants and slippers, hugs Sean then Daniel tightly around their necks. Then he forces them to get a picture together, joking that he'll have something for the _MISSING_ posters if something goes wrong. Then he bombards them with questions. Does Sean have his AAA card? Does he have enough money? Would he like more money, just in case? Where are they staying tonight? Daniel, do you have your phone charger? Did you remember your toothbrush? After all of that and loading the groceries Dad bought, it feels like it takes forever for Sean to get out of Seattle with his brother.

But then they are finally on the road.

Yesterday was a long day of travel after a long couple of weeks after a long five years, but Sean doesn't feel tired. He's been imagining this trip since the drive back from talking to Max in Augusta. It was a journey to the border that brought him and Daniel close together, so maybe another trip—one with less blood, cults, and openly-racist assholes—will be what they need to fix their relationship.

And, though he's had doubts, he's finally decided that it doesn't matter what Max said, about how he might be risking everything. It's a week on the road with his little brother. There's no way this won't be awesome.

"So, _enano_," Sean says as the city disappears in the rearview mirror, "you got anything you want to see?"

But Daniel doesn't answer.

He already has his earbuds in, his eyes closed, drifting off to sleep.

# # #

_It's cool,_ Sean tells himself as Daniel snoozes in the passenger's seat. _He's a kid. He got up early. I'm the adult. It's fine._

Sean fumbles with his phone, pulls up a playlist he found in his Spotify of Frank Turner songs. He isn't sure why the Sean in this life connected to them—maybe he was just kind of emo. But the songs sound like they were written by a broken person who is trying to be better, and they have really spoken to Sean these past few months.

As the guitars and vocals play through the speakers, Sean realizes one good thing about Daniel sleeping—he won't get asked why they are going this route to Beaver Creek. Not only is it slower, it's very much out of the way.

Because it's the way Sean and his brother walked when Dad died. Before Sean decided they were going to Puerto Lobos, when they just needed to get away.

Sean made the decision to retrace this path without _really_ making the decision. He didn't think about it. It just seemed like a thing to do, since he's trying to recreate their journey.

It didn't seem like a big deal, but as they drive over a bridge that they slept under on their first night, he feels the same cold that crept into his skin as he used his body to shelter Daniel from the wind.

As they drive past the national park where Daniel made a fort to protect them from Creepers and they decided that they were wolves as they slept under a rocky outcropping, Sean can feel the hard ground that was beneath the blanket, hear his brother whimpering in his sleep.

All of this took days of walking—Sean can feel the ache in his legs, the blisters on his feet—but in a car, they pass it in a little over an hour.

They pass a restaurant where Sean, against his judgment, splurged on food, and he can taste the richness of the milkshake and feel it bloating his days-empty stomach.

And then he sees a gas station. No, not just any gas station—_the _gas station.

They were hungry and begged for food. They even dug through the trash. But the nice lady inside was kind, and they didn't steal, but that asshole, that fucking asshole, accused them of stealing anyway and he tied Sean up and . . .

Sean can feel the plastic zip-tie cutting into his wrists, his fingers growing cold from lack of circulation.

He feels the impact of the man's boot crashing against his cheekbone.

And he feels the sting of the man's words calling him a "thug" and accusing him of not being a citizen.

He was a kid. He hadn't hurt anybody. How could that fucker just beat up, tie up a kid . . . like a child could be fucking dangerous?

Sean remembers the dark. And the pain. And, oh god, that feeling of utter helplessness and—

There's a tightness in Sean's chest.

And a thin layer of sweat on his body, like his skin is too hot, but the rest of him is too cold.

His heart flutters.

He feels like he's going to throw up, but there's nothing coming up his stomach.

_Holy shit, _he thinks. _Am I having a panic attack?_

He should stop the car. He knows he should stop the car. This isn't safe, driving as his body shuts-the-fuck-down. But he can't stop _here_, not here, the man could get him that asshole could come get him he could get tied up and—

That's stupid. He knows it's stupid. Sean was on the news, and they're already past the gas station—that man isn't going to come for him. Sean faced worse things later in their journey; he faced worse things every day in prison. But that asshole, that fucking Hank Stamper, was the first really scary thing that happened to him.

Hank Stamper was the first person who told him that he wasn't a kid anymore.

So he can't stop here.

So what else can he do but keep driving?

# # #

Sean drives in a daze. For how long, he isn't sure, hands numbing from the tightness that he grips the wheel, arms rigid like wooden boards. And the whole time, his brother asleep, unaware beside him. When he finally pulls over, he stumbles out of the car, strips off his hoodie, and his t-shirt underneath is drenched with sweat. A cool breeze cuts through it, and he shivers but still feels hot.

They're at a small, road-side stop, a lookout point set over a small, bay-side town at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. The clouds over the water are a dull gray, and Sean leans on a thick, metal guardrail, and sets his head on it. It's cold. The air smells like pine. And he feels sick.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck. What's wrong with me?_ he wonders. How can he be freaking out _this_ much just from driving past some shit?_ Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all._ _But none of that bad stuff happened. It can't hurt me. None of it can hurt me._

Except all that bad stuff is still there. And it _is_ hurting him.

There's a breathing exercise he knows. Draw in a breath for a count of four. Hold it for a count of seven. Let it out for a count of eight. Repeat. He does this a few times, and his heart still feels like it's beating out of sync when he hears:

"Dude, Sean, are you okay?"

Sean raises his head, and Daniel stands there, earbuds hanging out the collar of his shirt, his eyebrows knitted in worry. Sean didn't even hear the car door. "I'm fine, bro. I just . . . needed some air."

It tickles as Daniel runs a fingertip over the lonely boy tattoo on Sean's forearm; Daniel grimaces then wipes his hand on his pants. "You are really damp for someone who is 'fine.' Where are we?"

The town below looks familiar. There's a lighthouse on the hill and a sense that Sean has been here before. A placard in front of him says: _Arcadia Bay_.

"Arcadia Bay?" Daniel says. "Dude, do you remember the last time we were here?"

"What?" Sean says. Daniel shouldn't remember the last time they were here because it was after Brody picked them up. They stopped in this very spot. Sean had a heart to heart with Brody while Daniel slept in the car with their new dog Mushroom. God, Mushroom. Sean had forgotten about Mushroom. All of that was another world, one that shouldn't exist anymore.

"Yeah," Daniel says, "Dad took us down here for a weekend, but we spent most of it in the hospital because we found out you're allergic to shellfish."

"Ha, yeah," Sean says, leaning on the rail, not feeling relieved. "That was a pretty shitty trip. This one is going to be better."

"Really, though," Daniel says, "you look . . . bad. You can tell me if something is wrong. I'll listen or whatever if you need to talk."

Sean shakes his head. Despite what Dad said, that's not how it works. Sure, there were times when Sean had to rely on Daniel and his powers to get them out of a spot. But the big stuff—the heavy stuff, the emotional stuff, the responsibility stuff—that was all on Sean. He's the big brother. He shoulders things for Daniel. It doesn't work the other way of around.

But . . . down below is Arcadia Bay, the town the universe tried to destroy because Max saved her friend Chloe. Sean can't really make out any people from here, but he knows they are there. Someone has to be driving those cars back and forth. He tries to imagine all of this gone, a crater of debris. He tries to wrap his head around letting so many lives get destroyed to save one person.

How can you sacrifice everyone you love, your home, for one person?

Somewhere, far off the coast, a single bolt of lightning streaks down to the water.

"Dan, do you know about the Trolley Problem?" Sean asks.

"Yeah! _The Good Place_ did a whole episode about it," Daniel says.

"What's _The Good Place_?"

"'What's _The Good Place'? _Dude, it's a show about a bunch of people in the afterlife that I can't really say more about without _major _spoilers—how have you not seen this? It's mostly about philosophy and shit and is totally the type of weird show you'd be into."

_Yeah, well, I didn't get to watch much TV that wasn't sports in prison_, Sean thinks. "Anyway, let's say that you're on a trolley, and you can switch between two sets of tracks. On one of them is Dad, and if the trolley stays on the track, it will kill him. Dad will be dead. What do you do?"

"Well, what's on the other track?"

"Nothing, as far as you know."

"Then obviously I switch tracks and save Dad," Daniel says. "Are you sure _you_ know what the Trolley Problem is? Because these are supposed to be much harder."

"Okay," Sean says. "Let's say that because you switched tracks you, like, miss your stop. So you miss an important event you had planned with your best friend, and now your best friend isn't really your best friend anymore. You miss him . . . like, a lot. More than you thought possible. Do you still think saving Dad is worth it?"

Daniel hangs his head. His hair is a little shaggy, and it falls over his eyes. He kicks at the gravel with the toe of his beaten-up Chuck Taylors. It takes him a long time to answer. "I still save Dad. He's Dad."

"Now, let's say you have the chance to ask your former best friend to get on the trolley with you. If he does, there's a really good chance you guys can become friends again. But the thing is—you don't know what's ahead. It could be a smooth ride. It could be a good time. But you've heard rumors the track is unfinished. The trolley might be heading to a big pit with the two of you on it. It could, I dunno, get struck by lightning." The thunder from the lightning bolt finally rumbles over them. "You miss him, but you may end up hurting him if you try to be friends again. What do you do?"

"I don't fucking know, Sean!" Daniel snaps. "If you want to fucking talk to me about something, you should just fucking do it. Don't bullshit, okay? It's condescending and makes you a dick."

"What?" Sean blinks. He has no idea where this is coming from. "Dude, why are you freaking out at me?"

"Just . . . fuck you, man," Daniel says. Even as Sean calls his name, begs him to stop, his little brother doesn't turn around. He just stomps back towards the car, leaving Sean confused about how this chasm keeps showing up between them.


	23. Episode Three: The Wilderness - Five

Daniel isn't even paying attention to the XXXTentacian song coming through his earbuds. He just has them in so Sean doesn't talk to him.

He is so fucking pissed he could scream.

He gets it. Dad is worried about him. Sean is acting like he's worried about him. But, one, he doesn't want to talk about Noah. He's tired of feeling angry and embarrassed and frustrated and hurt all the time, and he wanted this trip to be a week where _finally_ he could stop thinking about it.

And, two, it's the way Sean asked. That vague, _"Oh I'm talking about 'the Trolley Problem' but _really_ I'm talking about your issues, _enano_"_ way that Sean approached it. It felt so condescending, like his brother thinks he is some stupid five-year-old who can't handle a real conversation. If Sean has something to say, he should just say it. Not do whatever the fuck that was by Arcadia Bay.

As they drive through roads surrounded by pine trees stretching towards the sky, Daniel rubs his eyes. Maybe he shouldn't have blown up like that. He didn't get much sleep last night. Like, he's on a road trip to meet his grandparents and his mom—his mom who abandoned him with a million questions. It's hard to drift off when your brain keeps punching your heart with this idea that Karen Reynolds didn't want to leave her family as much as she wanted to leave _him_ specifically.

He wipes his eyes, discretely enough that his brother doesn't notice, and their car slows down as they enter the city limits of Beaver Creek.

Daniel takes his ear bud out of his ear. "So this is where our grandparents live?"

"Oh, did you finally decide to join this trip?" Sean mutters.

"Dude, why are you pissed at me?"

"I'm not pissed at you."

"You sound pissed at me."

"Okay, I'm pissed at you!" Sean says. "We've been on the road for hours, and you've barely said anything to me except to cuss me out back at Arcadia Bay. What the hell, man?"

"You were being a dick," Daniel says, crossing his arms.

"How was I being a dick?" Sean sighs.

"How were you not?"

"Dammit, you know what, dude?" Sean says. "We're about to meet our grandparents for the first time in years. Can we just . . . drop whatever this is between us? Let's just say we were both tired and cranky and pretend we are good brothers for Claire and Stephen. Can we do that please?"

"Sure. Whatever," Daniel says, picking at his fingers and feeling like he's already fucked up this trip. Like he fucks up everything.

The town they drive through is small and lonely. There are, at most, two stoplights and zero fast-food restaurants. They pass some kind of game store and a coffee shop, but that is it. Daniel has no idea how anyone could stand to live here. It's like the only things to do are to drink, reflect on your lost dreams, and wait patiently for death.

They pass through the entire town in just a couple of blocks, and Sean drives down a mess of dirt and gravel pretending to be a road before he parks the car in front of a small, brick house. Wooden cutouts of a bunny and a cross are set up for Easter in the front yard.

"So, this is Claire and Stephen's house," Sean says. "You actually have met them before, but you were a baby. Your head was still soft, and I don't think you could see colors yet. It was, uh, before Mom left."

"You never told me how you found her," Daniel says as they get out of the car.

"Well, maybe if you hadn't slept and pouted the whole way down I—" Sean sighs. "I'm sorry. We're dropping it. Look, I don't know what I did to piss you off, but I'm sorry I did it. I really was not trying to make you feel bad."

"It's whatever." Daniel shoves his hands into his pockets and stares down at his sneakers. One of his laces is fraying at the end, messy like everything else in his life. "Hey, man, I'm sorry I fell asleep on the way down. I know that's not cool, but I was real tired and—oof!" He runs head-first into his brother's back. The top of his skull catches one of the knobby parts of Sean's spine. Why couldn't his brother have done one of those sports where you get muscles instead of running, which just makes you boney? Daniel rubs his head, wondering why Sean has come to a dead-ass stop in the middle of the driveway.

But Sean is just standing there, staring at the neighbor's house, like he's seeing some kind of ghost.

In the other yard, there is a man dumping a box of beer cans, which rattle into a trashcan. The man looks rough. Like, homeless rough, even though he clearly has a home. His scraggily beard is somehow patchy even though it has grown almost to his chest. His legs are unsteady like they are made from over-cooked spaghetti. Daniel can almost smell the booze on him from here, even though it's only 2:00 in the afternoon. The man isn't wearing a shirt, and a sagging beer gut hangs over the waistband of his gray, stained sweatpants. There's a giant tattoo on his upper arm that spreads onto his back and chest.

It's an angel cradling a cross.

It looks like there might be two names beneath it.

Sean keeps staring. It's the kind of intense, focused look he gets when he's trying to draw something. When he is trying to "understand" a scene.

"Do you know that man?" Daniel asks.

"No," Sean says, shaking his head. "He just . . . reminds me of someone I used to know."

When they reach the front steps of the house, Daniel feels Sean's hand gently nudging him. "Even though you're kind of gangly, you're still the cuter Diaz brother, dude. You should knock."

Daniel rolls his eyes and raps his knuckles on the wood. No one answers, so Daniel knocks again. This time, a curtain at the window rustles, but still no one comes to the door. "Maybe Grandma is scared of a couple of Mexicans on her doorstep," Daniel says.

"No way, that's not—" But Sean stops midsentence. "Actually, yeah, that's probably it." He pounds on the door and shouts, "Hey, Claire, we aren't the cartel or MS-13! We're Karen's kids! It's Sean and Daniel! Diaz!"

Finally, the door swings open, and there stands an old woman in a violet sweater and glasses. She covers her mouth. "Sean? Daniel? Is that really you?"

"Hey," Sean says with a small laugh.

Daniel isn't sure what to say, so he just waves.

She tells them to come inside, rambles about how big they both are. Stammers a lot, which makes sense. Daniel would have no idea what to say if the roles were reversed and Claire just showed up on his front step. There's an awkward moment as they stand in the foyer of her house where Daniel can tell she wants to hug them but isn't sure if she can. Then Sean makes the first move, wrapping his arms around her. So that means Daniel has to let her hug him too, and she has that old-people bandaid smell.

Claire says that her husband Stephen went to town, but he'll be back soon and he'll be so excited to see them. They should sit down at the kitchen table, and do they want anything to drink? She has juice, milk, and maybe some pop, but Daniel and his brother just ask for water. She hits them with the questions about school, and she is really impressed with Sean being an artist.

"And what about you, Daniel? What do you have going on in your life?"

"Nothing," he says and shrugs, hoping she'll take it as him being a teenager and not wanting to talk about things. But he really doesn't have anything going on. He's not like Sean, the amazing artist. Sean, the former track star. Sean who always got on honor roll without trying. Daniel can't draw. He doesn't play sports. He is barely passing his math class.

He doesn't even have friends anymore.

There is absolutely nothing special about him.

"You had a birthday yesterday, right?" Claire asks.

"Uh, yeah. I turned sixteen," he says. "How did you know that?"

"I keep track," she says. "Happy belated birthday."

"Thanks."

"I'm sorry I missed it." Her hands are sitting on the table, and one of her thumbs traces the other. "I'm sorry I missed all of them."

"It's whatever," Daniel says, rubbing his arm.

Sean picks up the conversation with Claire so easily that it sure doesn't sound like it's been fifteen years since the two of them spoke. They must have gotten along pretty well for Sean to be so connected with her. Daniel looks around the dining room, at the old cabinets filled with old people stuff. There's a couple of paintings, one of which looks like Beaver Creek.

His mom grew up here. Maybe she sat at this very table when she was his age. Maybe she sat here when Sean was a baby.

It's weird, Daniel thinks, that their family didn't fall apart until after he was born.

It's bubbling up again. That voice telling him that little Daniel is what finally pushed Karen away. That he's the reason his dad and his brother got so hurt.

Daniel is brought back from his thoughts by the creak of the front door opening, and a man's voice says, "Claire, do we have company?"

"Oh, Stephen! You will never guess who is here!" She has this real excited look on her face as she turns to watch her husband come in.

An old man, bald, and wearing a flannel shirt stops in the entryway. He looks so confused about why these two young men are talking to his wife. But, slowly, recognition dawns behind his glasses. "Is this . . . Sean? And Daniel? Claire, are these our grandsons?"

Then there is more laughter. And more hugging. And more old people smell.

And then they repeat the exact same conversations they've just had for Stephen.

Daniel knows he should be excited to be meeting his grandparents—Claire remembering his birthday was nice, surprisingly nice—but the tediousness of it, the way the conversation moves like a snail crawling through tar, and everyone talks _so loud_ because old people can't hear—it makes his head hurt. He reaches into his pocket for the Tylenol he carries, pops two into his mouth, and swallows them with some water.

He realizes everyone is staring at him, including Sean. "It's Tylenol," he says, holding up the bottle. Then Claire hammers him with dozens of questions. Is he sick? Can she get him anything? What's wrong? Is it the flu? Did you see the news said the avian flu is being brought in from China? Daniel has to force himself to be polite so he doesn't tell her that she's actually making his headache worse.

"So as good as it is to see you, can I ask what made you decide to show up now?" Stephen says. "I mean, it's been so long."

"Well, I can't speak for Daniel, but I've kind of realized that time is pretty valuable," Sean says. "And we wanted to spend some of that time with you."

Claire smiles and clasps her hands over her chest. Daniel almost rolls his eyes. It's so corny, and he still isn't convinced that Sean's sudden transformation into "the-best-son-who-calls-every-day" isn't some kind of con.

"And, I guess I should be honest," Sean continues. "We have sort of a big favor to ask you."

"Which is what exactly?" Stephen asks.

"We are . . . kind of on a road trip to find our mom. And we wondered if you knew anything about where she is."

It's like the room suddenly drops twenty degrees. Claire noticeably shivers, and Stephen, he just gets real quiet. Daniel sits up, wondering what soap opera his brother has brought him to. Daniel hadn't thought about it much, but he always assumed Mom only left _them_—Sean, Dad, and Daniel. Did she leave her parents too?

"I know it's probably difficult to talk about," Sean says, "but if you've heard from her or—"

"We don't keep in touch," Claire says. "That door closed a long time ago, and I just want to keep it shut. I'm sorry, Sean, but I don't think I can help you. And I'll be honest, I don't think you should seek her out."

"It's okay," Sean says—and he is cool about it. Like, weirdly cool about it. Not argumentative. Or disappointed. Just . . . chill. "If it's a sore subject, we don't have to talk about her right now. Hey, do you have any embarrassing pictures of me as a kid we can show Daniel?"

Claire smiles and says of course she does, but Daniel can't believe how quickly Sean dropped the Mom thing. Like, that's a big reason they're here, right? _The_ reason for the road trip?

As Claire goes upstairs to find the photos, Stephen tries to fill the air with the gossip he picked up in town. There's some guy who had to be escorted out of one of the local bars. And some lady's dog ran amok in the hardware store. And those hippies are still jumping on and off the trains because they never learn.

Sean seems to hang on every word, but it's kind of hard for Daniel to concentrate. The Tylenol doesn't seem to be helping. In fact, his headache feels like it's getting worse.


	24. Episode Three: The Wilderness - Six

_Do I have a cool, secret-agent vibe or am I being a manipulative piece of shit? _Sean wonders when Claire asks them to stay for dinner. He insists that they can't, that it's too much trouble, that they just showed up out of nowhere—but this was his plan all along. He knew Claire would ask. He knows Claire will insist. And so he and Daniel stay for dinner.

As Sean volunteers to set the table, he's torn between two motivations.

One, he legit feels like he was a dick when they stayed here back in 2016. He was a fugitive from the law, and Claire and Stephen risked a lot by taking him and Daniel in. They probably literally saved Daniel's life when he got sick, and then they went on to raise him after Sean went to jail. That's big, and Sean never told them thank you, not really. And if Claire had a lot of rules so the cops wouldn't come beating down the door, then she probably wasn't the controlling monster Sean thought she was when he was sixteen.

And, two, he knows that if he plays the good, polite grandson, he can get Claire to open up. Sean is only 80% sure Mom stayed in Arizona in this timeline, and, while he remembers her phone number and could just call her, he would rather not have to explain that to Daniel. Claire and Stephen _might_ know something that would confirm Mom's whereabouts. But there's also Mom's room upstairs.

The room isn't much, but Daniel literally knows nothing about Mom. He used to keep a box labeled _Mom Stuff_ under his bed that he thought Sean didn't know about, so maybe if Daniel could see her room, see her stuff, it might mean something to him.

Maybe Daniel would appreciate it. Thank Sean for bringing him here. Then Sean would be close to his brother again.

Still, Sean feels greasy as he pretends not to know where the plates are or _exactly_ how Claire wants the place settings.

After he shreds lettuce and cheese for a salad, he asks what else he can do, and Claire tells him that he's a very helpful young man, but she can handle dinner without him. "Why don't you sit on the couch with your brother and grandfather? I think he's showing Daniel an old photo album from his firefighter days."

"Sure," Sean says, wondering if he maybe overdid the helpfulness, and for a moment he leans on the back of the couch, listening to his brother laugh at Stephen's stories. It's cool to see the two of them bonding, and Sean wonders if this is what they did in that other life.

It's weird, Sean realizes, as he looks around the living room. In that other timeline, this is where Daniel is growing up. This house has five years of his brother's life that Sean missed because he was in prison.

When they came here that December after Dad died, they were desperate. They were cold and sick and hungry. But the week they spent here . . . it was good. But also cruel. Because Sean got used to being warm. And fed. And not having to be the adult. And, just for a moment, he let himself believe that he could live here. That maybe Grandma and Grandpa could adopt him and make the cop not be dead or the gas station asshole not be "assaulted" and he could finish growing up.

But . . . that was never going to happen.

Sean Diaz never gets to be a normal kid.

He doesn't want anyone to ask why his eyes are pink—Daniel probably suspects he's on drugs or something already—so he walks over to the glass door, studies the back yard. He thinks he's keeping himself together until he looks into the neighbor's yard and sees Chris's treehouse.

Chris was this awkward, little dork running around in a make-shift superhero costume when they met. Sean hasn't actually seen Chris since that December five years ago, but in the other life, Chris is Daniel's best friend. Like, half of Daniel's stories are actually Chris stories. Daniel wouldn't have been able to handle everything without his friendship with Chris.

And Sean can't get the look of Chris's dad Charles out of his head.

He looked bad. Real bad. Like never-got-over-the-loss-of-his-wife bad.

And that tattoo on his arm sure looks like the type you get when someone dies.

And it sure looked like there were two names underneath it.

# # #

Dinner is lasagna with garlic bread and a salad. It is amazing how Claire just had the ingredients to make this lying around. Like, Dad cooks, sure, but it is usually an event. Most of the time they survive on takeout or frozen pizzas.

Claire keeps insisting that Sean and Daniel refill their plates until Sean feels like his stomach is swelling. Stephen is a never-ending story machine. And it's striking just how _nice_ both of them are.

It's not that they were mean when Sean met them while on the run, but things were . . . tense, at times. Was it Sean himself? Like, as much as he didn't want the responsibility, it sucked to be stripped of his independence so suddenly, and he was a shithead about it. Or was it because Claire and Stephen were much more stressed out about breaking the law than they let on?

But without all that baggage, they're so happy to have their grandsons here. They were pretty cool when Sean was little. He remembers being real excited to see his grammy and pop-pop. It's sad that Claire and Stephen missed most of Sean's life. And all of Daniel's.

Suddenly, Sean's phone vibrates. It's his father: _Did you make it to Claire and Stephens?_

"I need to excuse myself," Sean says, holding up the phone. "It's Dad." He walks around the corner to sit at the bottom of the stairs, and he can still pick out bits of Stephen, Claire, and Daniel's conversation. Sean texts back: _Yeah dad we made it._

_Daniel doing good with his grandparents?_

_Yeah hes taking a real liking to Stephen. Everything is good. Can I ask you a quick question? Why did you not keep in touch with them?_

_Son that is not a quick question_

_Haha I know but you can give me the short answer its cool_

The phone screen shows that Dad is typing for a long time. _Your mom didn't get along with her parents. I didn't either. They didn't like me. It was hard to keep in touch even when your mom was here. They are good people but some of the things they believe I didn't want to expose you to._

_Do you mean the Christianity and the low key racism? _

_Have they said something to you or Daniel?_

_Haha no but I remember you telling me not to call Claire abuelita and there is kind of a vibe that me and Daniel are two of the GOOD Mexicans. _

_I am holding back many of my words right now_

_Don't worry about it they are mostly cool. I get how white people are I have white friends at school. Also I dunno if you know this but im half white_

_Well I am surprised but I love you anyway hijo_

_Haha love you too pops_

As Sean slides the phone back into his jeans pocket and steps back into the dining room, he catches Daniel posing with his grandparents for a selfie.

And that makes Sean smile.

It's good to see this moody, possibly-depressed teenager act like his goofy kid brother again. But it's also weird, how much they look like a happy family, which is what they are in that other life. While Sean and their mother bristled at Claire, Daniel never did.

It's Sean who pushed things. It's Sean who called Lyla and brought the cops to the door. It's Sean who ran away. Like his mom.

Maybe Sean should have left Daniel here in that other life. Made a break for the border, drawn all the heat and left Daniel out of it. Maybe Daniel would just have a better life without him.

Max said he's playing with forces he doesn't understand. Even Sarah said he can't put things back the way they were.

"Hey, Sean," Daniel says, spying him in the doorway. "Come over here. Let's get a picture with Grandma and Grandpa."

"Okay, _enano_," Sean says. "Sure."

# # #

After dinner, Stephen takes Daniel upstairs to show him the model trains, but Sean insists on helping Claire with the dishes. She gushes with appreciation about it. "Your father must have done one heck of a job raising you," she says.

"Well, I can't imagine how bad life would be without him," Sean says. He sets a plate in the dish rack to dry then picks up another to scrub.

"It must have been hard for him raising two boys alone," Claire says, drying the dish with a towel before setting it in a cabinet.

"So . . ." Sean starts carefully, "I know you don't want to talk about my mom, but if I remember right, her room is upstairs. I think it would be nice if you showed it to Daniel."

"Sean, it's just a room now. It's full of junk."

"Daniel doesn't remember our mom," Sean says. "It might help him feel, I dunno, like he has some understanding."

"I told you I don't want to talk about this."

"I know," Sean says, drying his hands on a towel. He leans on the counter. "But you can. I know my mom abandoned you too. And if anyone can understand how much it hurts to get abandoned by Karen Reynolds, it's me."

"It isn't just that I lost my daughter," Claire says "It's what she did to you and your brother, too. I don't blame Esteban for not keeping us in your lives. But I blame your mother. By her leaving, she took our grandsons from us too. And I do not understand how she could leave you like that. As a mother, I don't get it. It makes me so angry at her."

"I'm not trying to start an argument. I get it. But what does that anger get you? I have spent most of my life being angry with her. And even if I think that she left because she needed to, I still don't . . . I don't know if she gets how much it hurt me. It still hurts that she left," Sean says, and his voice cracks because he did not realize this pain was still there. He and his mom talked. They reconciled. He even thought he understood her choices. But it doesn't change the fact that he was an eight-year-old kid who woke up one morning, and his mama was gone forever. It's a scar that maybe can't fully heal. "I understand sometimes people need to put themselves first, but I guess that doesn't change that it hurts for the people who get put second."

Claire doesn't say anything, but she puts her arms around him. And he doesn't say anything either, is just grateful for the hug from his grandmother. "Anyway, just think about it. Okay?" he says.

"Okay," she says. "But I have to ask you a serious question, Sean. How do you know your mother wants to see you?"

"I just know," he says, trying to hide his grin. Except . . . he doesn't know, does he?

In that other life, it took their Dad dying for Mom to reach out to them. And even then, she just sent a letter asking Claire and Stephen to look out for him and his brother. It took his brother getting abducted by a cult and Sean being left for dead for Karen to actually show up and reconnect with them. She said she wanted to reach out before . . . but she didn't. It took fucking extreme circumstances for her to choose to come back into their lives.

What if Claire is right? What if Mom doesn't want to see them?

What will that do to Daniel?

And, Sean wonders, what will it do to him?


	25. Episode Three: The Wilderness - Seven

Sean feigns surprise when Claire asks if he and Daniel want to stay the night. He tells her it's cool, they are going to a nearby campground, so then she _insists_ they stay, like he expected she would. Daniel also seems on board for it, and they spend the evening playing board games with their grandparents while Sean feels like an AP Bio student who only passed because he swiped the answers to the test.

The television is on in the living room, so they hear the evening news sign off, signaling that it is waaay past Stephen's bed time, which is when they finally call it a night. Sean and Daniel grab their backpacks from the car, and Claire leads the boys upstairs to the small guest room where they stayed five years and another lifetime ago.

"Do you boys need anything?" Claire asks as they set their backpacks on the floor.

"I think I'm good," Sean yawns, the long days of travel finally catching up with him. "Daniel, how about you?"

"I'm fine," Daniel says, looking around the room. It's just a bed, a side table, and a small desk. The walls are wood paneling from, like, the 1970s or something. Sean isn't sure the room ever got used before they showed up.

"So I have a small request, if you don't mind," Claire says, fidgeting with her hands. "I would like to say a little prayer with you. Your mother made it very clear to me once that your father was _not_ religious, so it is okay if you say no, but it would mean a lot to me after all this time."

Sean aggressively doesn't believe in God. He didn't before his dad got shot, and, after everything turned to shit, it was easier to accept that no one was in control of the universe than to believe that there was some cruel, puppet master in the sky. He glances at Daniel, who was much more open to God—even after Lisbeth's cult—but he's a little wide-eyed here; Sean isn't sure what his brother believes in this timeline. But Claire has been so nice, and it's a dumb hill to die on, so Sean says, "Sure."

Claire smiles like she's been handed new crocheting needles (or whatever it is old people get excited about).

His grandmother's hand feels soft as Sean takes it; his brother's feels oddly cool. But Sean bows his head, and Claire says a simple prayer, thanking the Lord for bringing her grandsons back to her and asking him to look over Sean and Daniel and to help them find what they are looking for.

It's not a very long prayer. But it's just long enough that Sean finds himself caught in his own thoughts and saying his own. _Hey, God or whatever is out there. . . I feel stupid even 'talking' like this . . . but I know I'm messing with some pretty big things. All I want is for my family to be safe and for me to be part of my brother's life. I don't . . . I don't understand why that is so much to ask. Please don't punish me for this, okay? I don't know if you're paying a lot of attention, but I've kind of been through a lot. Like, I look at that other life, and I have no idea how I woke up in the morning. I think I've paid back every bad thing I've ever done, so please don't punish me for loving my dad and my brother and trying to find my mom, okay? Please, God?_

He says _please_ over and over again in his head, and, suddenly he realizes how tightly he's squeezing his eyes shut and how tightly he's holding his brother and grandmother's hands. When he opens his eyes, Daniel is studying him like he's an alien, but Claire still has her head bowed. She's already finished her prayer, so Sean quickly says, "Amen."

"Yeah, amen," Daniel says, his eyes still on Sean.

Claire again asks if they need anything, and they assure her they don't. She hugs them both and tells them one more time how good it is to see them, and then she goes to her own room at the end of the hall.

Daniel has a dazed look in his eyes as they slowly scan the room.

"Hey, bro, did you have a good time with Claire and Stephen?" Sean asks.

"Hmm?" Daniel says, running his hand over the dresser. "Oh, yeah, I did. They're pretty cool. For old people. Hey, do you remember if—is this Karen's room?"

Daniel asked this in the other life, too. Sean shakes his head and sighs. "I'm afraid not, bro. Her room was the one by the bathroom. I asked Claire if she would let you see it, but she said no. It's hard for her to talk about Mom."

"Oh," Daniel says. "It's whatever, I guess."

He doesn't actually sound like it's 'whatever,' though.

Sean goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth and do a pre-bedtime piss, and as he exits Daniel comes in with his own toiletries. But instead of going back to the guest room, Sean stops outside the door to what used to be his mom's room.

He tries the knob. It's locked.

In the other life, he was a real asshole, violating Claire's trust, going through her things until he found a key. He might be able to sneak into their room and find it again in the dark. Or, hey, maybe she left it in a sweater she threw into the hamper again. But, also, he's a bit better at breaking and entering now. Being homeless for so long, hanging out with Finn and Cassidy, and going to jail, he's picked up a few skills he didn't have last time he was here.

He knocks on the bathroom door.

It opens, and Daniel's face is covered with the suds from some kind of acne scrub. "What?" he says, annoyed.

"Hey, I was just thinking . . . if you want to see Mom's old room, I could probably get us in there."

"I thought it was locked. Are you going to break in or something?"

"Maybe. I might be able to sneak the key out of Claire's room. I dunno, don't worry about that part. I just need to know if you want to see Mom's room, so I can figure out how to get in."

"Of course I want to see Mom's room," Daniel says. "But Claire has been real nice to us, feeding us and letting us stay the night. And you're talking about breaking into a room in her house. That's real shitty, dude. That's like tricking your grandmother by praying with her when really you're an atheist, and one of those asshole-atheists too."

"I'm not an _asshole_-atheist."

"You and Lyla had a YouTube channel in high school where you mocked Christian youth groups!"

"It was about all those weirdo kids who wore those _Jesus Says Saving It is Lit _shirts! We posted one video that we took down after a week!" Sean pinches the bridge of his nose, calms his voice down. "Look, I was just offering to show you Mom's room since I couldn't talk Claire into it. I thought you'd appreciate it."

Daniel sighs, and some of the soap bubbles slide down his cheeks. "I get that, but, dude . . . I don't want you to do stuff for me that means you sacrifice other things like our grandma's trust, you know?"

Sean nods, but really he feels pretty bad. He wanted to do something nice for his brother, and it didn't work out. He goes back to the guest room, crawls out of his jeans and into bed, and he flips through his phone. His Instagram has picked up a few more followers from a comic he posted before he left Savannah. Toby has sent, like, a dozen snapchats of him, Diego, and Pete in Daytona Beach.

And Sean finds himself typing Mom's number into his phone, which he quickly deletes.

He really thought he could say the right things to Claire to get her to open the bedroom. And, sure, he got her to let them eat and stay the night, but what if something unpredictable happens with Mom? What if she is rocked by her past unexpectedly showing up on her doorstep? Maybe he should text her, give her a heads up. Because what if they get there and Mom—Karen—doesn't want to see them?

He's lost in this thought when he hears Daniel sigh dramatically. "Dude, really?" Daniel says. "Fine. Where are the car keys?"

"Uh, they are in my jeans pocket," Sean says, pointing to where he's set his pants on the chair. "Why do you need the car keys?"

"To get the sleeping bag because I guess I'm sleeping on the floor," Daniel says, and the keys jingle from his fingers. "I get it. I'm the little brother. But I thought we would flip a coin or something instead of you just taking the bed."

"Dude, why can't we share it?" Sean says. "I'm not trying to take anything from you."

"Yeah right. Do you remember what happened last time we shared a bed? It was that ski trip to Colorado. We got into a kind-of for-real fight at 1:00 in the morning, Dad yelled _a lot_, and I slept in his bed the rest of the trip."

"Fine!" Sean says, rolling out of bed. He's wearing a t-shirt and boxer shorts, but he slides his socked feet into his skate shoes. "I will go get the sleeping bag. I will sleep on the floor. It's not a big deal." After sleeping under bridges and on prison cots, his grandparents' carpet is practically a luxurious mattress, and if it keeps him from having a fight with his brother, it's worth the stiff neck and back pain. He reaches for the car keys.

Daniel pulls them away. "No, it's fine," Daniel sighs. "We can share. I . . . overreacted."

"You sure it's okay?"

"Yeah. I assumed you were being a jerk, and you're not. I'm sorry." Daniel sets the keys on the desk. "Just don't put your cold feet on me."

"Dude, your feet are way colder than mine. And you are always putting them on _me_."

"You literally sleep in socks. Who does that?"

"Because I know my feet get cold! The socks make them warmer. You just have your toes all out there losing heat and becoming other people's problem," Sean says, and the kid actually smiles a little.

Sean rolls back into bed, and Daniel zips his toiletries into the backpack Sean bought him. But when Daniel drapes his jeans over the chair, the bottle of Tylenol falls out of the pocket. He picks it up quickly, tries to shove it into his bag without Sean seeing.

"So," Sean says, sitting up on his elbow. "What's up with the bottle of pills?"

"It's just Tylenol," Daniel says. "It's not like it's Adderall or something. I don't do drugs like my stoner older brother."

"I get that," Sean says, trying not to let the stoner dig get to him. "But why does a sixteen-year-old boy carry it around in his pocket?"

"I just get headaches sometimes," Daniel says. "It's not a big deal."

"How often is sometimes?"

"Like a few times a week. It's nothing to freak out about, okay?"

Except it's totally something to freak out about. Eventually, Daniel was able to lift _tons_ with a wave of his hand, and all of that energy could be pressure-cooking his brain, and when it comes out . . .

Sean shudders.

Daniel crawls into bed, which creaks under his weight. Daniel may be scrawny, but he's man-sized now; there is much less room than when he was nine. He rolls onto his side to turn off the light, and his ice-cube feet have no place to go except Sean's shins.

And as they settle into the pillows and darkness, Sean almost rolls over to drape his arm over his brother but stops himself. Not just because they're "not close" but because Daniel is sixteen. Sometimes Sean forgets that. Being in prison and missing so much means that, in some ways, Daniel is forever frozen as a ten-year-old kid in his mind.

But there's an unease in Sean. An itch that he can't scratch. It's the Tylenol Daniel carries, and the conversation with Max. It's the worrying about his mom and whatever has happened to Chris. And there was the panic that seized him when he passed the gas station this morning. It's like a feeling he had when he was a kid, when he _knew_ the monsters under his bed weren't real, but that worry that they could grab him wouldn't go away.

"Do you remember when Dad let us watch _The Ring_?" Sean asks.

"Oh man," Daniel says. "I was, like, five, and I think I'm still scarred from it. I slept in your room for a full week."

"I was pretty scared of that movie too. Having you there helped me sleep better." Sean chuckles, and then, in a raspy whisper, says, "_Seven days!_"

"God, that's still so creepy," Daniel says. "You totally did that shit to me as a kid, and it freaked me out."

"That wasn't cool of me," Sean says. "You know, you got brave after the sixth night and were going to sleep in your room. I _might_ have whispered 'seven days' to you all afternoon so I wouldn't have to spend night seven alone."

"Dude, you asshole!" Daniel laughs, hitting him in the side.

"I was scared," Sean laughs. "And I was, like, eleven or twelve and 'too big' to admit I was scared of a dumb movie."

Suddenly there's a long silence. "You know," Daniel says quietly, "sometimes when I get scared, like really scared—not, like, about monsters or anything but, like, hard life stuff—I'll ask Dad to tell me one of his stories, like the ones he told us before bed when we were little. Do you think that's dumb?"

"Nah, it's not dumb. It's cool. I do that too."

"His stories always made me feel better when I was little. They still do."

"Me too."

"Sometimes they got scary. But I liked how no matter how bad things got in his stories, in the end, everything always worked out okay."

"I know, _enano_. I liked that too."

# # #

Long after their conversation stops and Sean's breathing changes, Daniel is still awake. He stares through the darkness at the ceiling in the house of his grandparents-he-just-met, and everything feels weird. There's the stuff back home with Noah that he can't shake. But there's also the weirdness of his brother, who is someone who prays with their grandmother, seems legitimately caring . . . but will also break into locked rooms of people who trust him. And all those questions about his mom's leaving seem to echo in this house she grew up in.

But it's also that he spent his first Saturday night as a sixteen-year-old by playing board games with his grandparents and brother, and it was the best Saturday he has had in a long time.

Just as Daniel is finally about to drift off to sleep, Sean suddenly twitches, that way someone does when dreaming. But then Sean does it again, more violently. Then Sean whimpers.

Daniel flashes back to Christmas, how panicked he felt when Sean had the nightmare he wouldn't wake up from.

And then Sean's whimpering turns to pleading. It's hard to make out what he's saying, but it sounds like he's begging someone to let him go.

"Sean?" Daniel sits up, sets his hand on his brother's chest. Sean's heart is beating fast. "Hey, bro, you're dreaming."

"Where's my brother?" Sean says, voice cracking.

"Hey, man, I'm here. Wake up, okay?"

"Please don't hurt me," Sean says, and he's crying. He's actually crying in his sleep. "I—I didn't do anything."

It's really freaky, and Daniel leans with both hands on his brother, shaking him, trying to pull him out of this nightmare. Finally, Sean gasps like he's emerging from the ocean, and he sits up. There is very little light from the moon outside, but Daniel can see the outline of his brother, looking around, trying to figure out where he is. Sean stares at his wrists, slowly moves them apart from each other. Finally, Sean sighs, sort of pats Daniel on the back and says, "Sorry, bro, I had a bad dream."

"No shit," Daniel says. "Sean, how often do you have these 'bad dreams'?"

"It's just a nightmare. Don't make a big deal about it," Sean says, lying back down.

"It's not just one nightmare, dude. You had one over Christmas, and it was really scary. And this morning by Arcadia Bay—I woke up, and you had stopped the car, and you looked like you were about to throw up or something."

"I just needed some air. Don't worry about it."

But Daniel _is_ worrying about it. He kind of worries about everything these days. And even though he and Sean aren't close, Sean is still his big brother, still his family. Dad's right. Something is wrong. And there was that weird thing Sean said at Arcadia Bay about the Trolley Problem. Daniel got pissed because he thought Sean was talking about Noah, but now he wonders if it was about something else.

"You know, if you're scared, you should just say you're scared. It's okay to ask for help. You don't have to act like you're tough then whisper like a creepy little girl until your little brother gets scared with you."

Sean's quiet for a long moment. "I'm fine, _enano_. Go back to sleep."

Except Daniel wasn't asleep, and he's even further from it than he was before. He lies back down, tosses and turns, then realizes he needs to pee.

The bathroom tile is cold against Daniel's feet, and he can't stop his worry for his brother. He flushes the toilet, washes his hands, and when he steps outside, he notices the room beside the bathroom is open.

_Shit_, he thinks, _Sean has broken into our mother's room, that fucking idiot._

There's the dull, yellow glow of some light on inside the room. Daniel carefully pokes his head inside, and . . . it looks like an old bedroom. There's a bunch of old boxes. A desk. And sitting on the bed, in her nightgown is Claire.

"Hello, Daniel," she says. "I couldn't sleep."

"Me neither," Daniel says, leaning on the doorway. It feels somehow rude to look around when Claire wanted to keep this hidden, especially with her sitting here, so he ends up looking at his feet. Which, Sean's right—they are cold. "Something on your mind?"

Claire slides over on the bed and pats the spot beside her, so he sits down.

Maybe Mom sat next to Claire like this when she was sixteen.

"You boys being here has stirred up a lot of old memories," Claire says. "I have thought so often about reaching out to you—every April 11, in particular—but I was always afraid I would anger your father or push you away like I did your mother. You and Sean, you turned out to be good kids. It makes me sad that I missed so much."

"It makes me sad, too," Daniel says, picking at his thumb. "If you had called or sent a card, I think it would have been fine. You and Stephen are cool."

"Thank you," Claire chuckles, but then she sighs. "All of this makes me even angrier at your mother for choosing to leave you two."

"I don't really know anything about her," Daniel says. "I think it hurt Dad to talk about her, and Sean hated her guts until recently. I don't know what changed."

"You can look around, if you want," Claire says.

"You sure?"

She nods. Assures him that it's okay. He finds a notebook of some of his mom's poems on her desk—so she was a kind of artist, like Sean. There's a stuffed bear that reminds him of his own childhood stuffed rabbit. And some old compact disks and a chest with random things like a pair of roller blades.

Claire says that his mom was always into poetry and that even as a child she was a free spirit. Claire and Stephen thought their daughter was crazy when she started dating Esteban Diaz, but she was truly in love with him, even if things ended the way that they did.

"So my mom and dad were happy together?" Daniel asks.

"For a little while," Claire says.

Daniel sighs and sits down on the bed with his chin in his hands. "I thought this would feel different," Daniel says. "Being in my mom's room. She's always been built up as this kind of big figure in my head."

"I'm afraid she was just a person," Claire says, and he feels her hand on his back. "And a very flawed person at that."

Daniel chews on his lip. It takes him a bit to work up to his next question. "Do you know why my mom left?"

"The short answer is that I don't," Claire says quietly. "We exchanged a couple of letters and a phone call, but it was a long, long time ago. Last time we talked, she needed money, but she wouldn't take it from us. All of her reasons she gave were about needing to be true to herself or some selfish crap like that. I didn't really get it."

"I see," Daniel says. He moves his thumb to his mouth, chews on the skin near his knuckle. "Do you think . . . did she leave because of me?"

"Why in the world would you ask that?"

"I dunno." He wipes at his eye. His grandmother doesn't say anything, so he can't stop himself from going on. "It's just—she loved Dad, right? And when it was just her, Dad, and Sean, everything seemed to be fine. Like, I've seen pictures. Sean always acted like he hated Mom, but it sure looks like they went camping together and did lots of awesome stuff when he was a kid. But the moment little Daniel came along, Karen just couldn't get out of our lives fast enough. And it's like, hey, what changed? And it just seems obvious that it's me. That I ruined everything."

He sniffles, rubs his face with the back of his hand. He tries really hard, but he still blubbers in the dark.

It's hard admitting that your mom didn't love you. It's hard admitting you are the reason your dad and brother went through so much pain.

Claire's hand rests on his bare knee. "You do not blame yourself for your mother's choices, do you hear me?" she says. "Your mom is the one that is missing out by not being part of your life. You are a sweet, wonderful, special young man. It is one-hundred percent her loss and her mistake. You did not ruin anything."

"I guess," Daniel sighs. He doesn't feel "sweet," "wonderful," or "special." He feels like a fuck up who ruins his friendships and makes people leave him.

"No, not 'I guess.' I want to hear you say it back to me that you did not ruin anything."

"I didn't ruin anything," Daniel says.

And then his grandmother hugs him surprisingly tightly for an old woman, so tightly that he barely shakes as he holds back the tears against her shoulder.

# # #

When Daniel gets back to the guest room, Sean is asleep. Daniel carefully crawls into bed, then lies there for a while, still unable to drift off.

Then Sean starts whimpering again. Another nightmare. The second one tonight.

"Dude, Sean," Daniel says, feeling drained. "You have to wake up."

The frightened noises pick up. Sean sounds like a puppy being kicked.

Daniel shoves him, but instead of waking up, Sean rolls over and drapes an arm over Daniel's chest.

"Bro, come _on_," Daniel sighs, and he starts to push his brother off him. Except . . . Sean stops whimpering. His breathing is suddenly deep and peaceful

Daniel rolls his eyes. He's stuck. If he moves Sean, his brother might start having freaky nightmares again. But, also, Daniel is trapped, and this is so annoying and dumb. He can barely move. This is just what he needs, on top of everything else.

He's still thinking about how dumb it is as he falls asleep beneath the shelter of his brother's arm.


	26. Episode Three: The Wilderness - Eight

The next morning, Sean and his brother get up at 6:00 AM. Sean wants to get on the road, and Claire and Stephen want to make their morning church service, but Claire insists that the boys can't leave without breakfast. So while she is griddling pancakes, Sean takes a quick shower but ends up putting on the clothes he wore yesterday; he spent months on the run wearing the same thing, so it's hard to see why he should pack more than a few changes of socks and underwear for this trip. Old habits, and all that.

Once he and Daniel have been stuffed with way too many pancakes, they say their goodbyes to Claire and Stephen at the door. Sean assures them that they will keep in touch, and maybe he could visit them next time he's in the Pacific Northwest? Daniel hugs both of his grandparents, but Claire says she has something for him and disappears back into the house.

She comes back holding a small envelope.

Inside is a birthday card. "When did you get this?" Daniel asks.

"I have my ways," Claire says slyly.

Inside the card is twenty dollars. "I can't take this," Daniel says.

"Nonsense," Claire says. "It's your birthday, and I missed all of them. I only wish it could be more."

"Thanks," Daniel says, and he hugs his grandmother tightly. "Thanks for everything."

"Remember what I made you say last night," Claire says.

"I will," Daniel says. Sean isn't sure what they are talking about. However, Daniel smiles, and that is good to see.

It still takes them another ten minutes of goodbyes and hugs just to get to the front step, and it feels like they are finally about to get away when Sean glances over at the Eriksens' house. Whenever he's been near a window, he's kept an eye out, hoping for some sign of a teenage Chris. In that other life, Charles was talking about sending Chris to live with other relatives. Maybe that's all that has happened here.

Sean should walk away from this. He should get in the car, continue the road trip, and not ask the question on his mind.

But he has to know the consequences he has chosen to live with.

"Hey, random question . . . " Sean says, carefully choosing how to phrase this. "We saw your neighbor yesterday, and he looked pretty rough. I can't really get him out of my head. Is there something up with him?"

Stephen shakes his head and clicks his tongue.

Claire clutches her hands to her chest.

Not great signs that they're going to say everything is good with Charles Eriksen.

"That's Charles," Claire says. "That poor, poor man is a walking tragedy. He lost his wife a few years ago. That's when he and his son Chris moved in next door."

"Cute kid," Stephen says. "Used to run around pretending he was some kind of superhero. I helped him build that tree house out in their backyard since his dad was too much of a drunk to do it."

"We knew Charles was in a bad place. I always suspected, and I wish I had called Child Services, especially after Chris broke his arm that one winter," Claire says.

"So," Sean says over the knot in his throat, "did something happen to Chris?"

"Chris and Charles got into some kind of an argument," Claire says.

"Friend of mine who works at the police station said both of them were drunk," Stephen adds.

"And Chris stormed off on his bicycle. He wasn't watching where he was going and got hit by a truck. He held on for a few days before he passed," Claire says.

"Only fourteen years old, too," Stephen adds. "Such a shame."

Sean isn't sure how he gets to the car. He doesn't remember putting the key into the ignition. Or leaving Beaver Creek.

The only thing he knows is the steady drum beat in his head, that someone he and his brother care about is dead.

And

this

is

his

fault.

# # #

_Two Weeks Ago_

_Sean, Olivia, and Pete's Apartment_

_Savannah, Georgia_

Sean sits at his drafting table in only his boxer shorts. A thin layer of sweat has dried on his bare shoulders, and his bedroom has a musky post-sex smell to it. He's muttering swear words as he works on a storyboard for class that just isn't coming out right.

His bedroom door opens, and Toby walks in, water droplets clinging to his short mohawk, a towel wrapped around his waist. He smells strongly of Sean's bodywash. Toby stays the night a lot and has his own drawer in Sean's dresser, but they still aren't "dating" for whatever reason.

Sean sneaks a glance at Toby's bare butt before it's covered by a pair of trunks, then he goes back to his storyboard, pretending that he wasn't looking, but Toby totally knows. He feels Toby's arms drape over his shoulders, and Toby kisses his neck. Toby's fingers play with the sparse bit of chest hair that Sarah used to play with before Sean broke up with her.

"What are you working on?" Toby asks.

"Storyboard for class," Sean says.

"Obviously. What's it about?"

Sean gestures to the image. It's a teenage boy and girl smoking on a porch that looks like his dad's back in Seattle. "It's based on this girl I was friends with in high school named Lyla."

"Oh," Toby says, and suddenly his body droops against Sean's. He goes over and sits on Sean's bed.

"Is something wrong?" Sean asks.

"It's nothing, it's just . . . ever since you went home for Christmas, something has been up with you. You're bringing up high school friends. You try to reconnect with your old girlfriend. You get, like, really upset that she doesn't want to be friends, which is definitely something the guy you're hooking up with loves hearing about. You're also blowing off that same guy and your best friends to go on a road trip with your brother."

"You said you were cool with me missing Daytona Beach," Sean says.

"I am . . . mostly . . . " Toby says. "But when was the last time you hung out with Diego? He's, like, your best bro, and he told me he hasn't really seen you in a month."

"I'm just . . . busy."

"We're all busy, Sean. We all have anxiety and depression and jobs and too much schoolwork and student debt and internships to worry about, and it's all too much. You're not special for being busy."

"What do you want, Toby? Are you upset that I'm spending time with my little brother instead of going on spring break with you? Because, I really like you, like, a lot, but you're the one who won't agree that we're boyfriends, so I don't know that you get to pull a jealousy card on how I spend my time."

"You know, you haven't actually brought up the boyfriend conversation lately so—" Toby shakes his head, and he walks back over to Sean. Sean feels Toby's lips on his forehead, Toby's hands on his shoulder. It's all gentle. And soft. Too understanding for someone who is 'just hooking up' with him. "Sean, I care a lot about you, too. I don't know if you're freaked out about graduation or if something happened while you were back home, but you're doing a lot of staring at the past."

"I'm not 'staring at the past'," Sean says. "I just . . . I realized there are some things I took for granted. And I'm trying to be better."

"I worry about you," Toby says, taking Sean by the hand. "Sometimes things are in the past, and it's, like, they are part of another life. And, even if it's hard, you have to leave those things in that old life behind otherwise you miss out on all of the good things going on in the life you have right now. You have a lot of good things going on in your life right now, handsome."

"I hear you," Sean says, eying his storyboard where he's drawn the best friend he doesn't talk to anymore, the way he remembers her, the way they used to be.

The way they should still be.

# # #

Daniel stares at his older brother's face as they drive through southern Oregon. Finally, Sean's eyelids close for an instant, and Daniel says, "Six."

"Dude, why are you counting?" Sean asks.

"I'm keeping track of the number of times you blink."

"And you're only at six? How long have you been counting?"

"A long time."

"Why are you counting?"

"Because you have this vacant, wide-eyed look on your face, and I don't understand how your eyes haven't dried up like raisins. I'm not really sure you should be driving."

"I'm okay."

"You sure? You seemed weirdly upset about our grandparents' neighbor's kid dying."

"And you're not upset?"

Daniel shrugs. "It's sad, yeah. I mean, it sucks the way he died and that he was just a kid. But I didn't know him."

"He was the same age as you. You guys might have been friends."

"What makes you think he was my age?"

"Um, didn't you hear Claire mention that?"

"I guess I missed that," Daniel says. "Do you get this upset every time you hear about someone dying? If so, you would have flipped your shit when Stephen was showing me his trains. He just casually dropped that a 'couple of hippies' got hit by a train last year because they were trying to hop on it. 'Bunch of freeloaders,' he said. Went into some gorey details, too. Like, it was kind of horrifying."

Daniel means it as a joke. Just an anecdote about old people being insensitive. He thinks his impression of Stephen is pretty good, too. He's trying to lighten the mood with dark humor.

But Sean's arms go stiff. The color drains out of his face. And sweat appears in the shaved parts of his hair.

The car wobbles a bit on the road.

"Sean? Hey, buddy, you okay?"

But Sean doesn't answer. He's just staring, straight ahead. The car is only kind of staying in the right lane.

Daniel sets his hand over his brothers' on the steering wheel. "Bro, stop the car, please."

"I'm fine, Daniel. Don't worry."

"Sean. _Hermano_. You have bullshitted me my whole life, and I can kind of see through it. And right now, I'm concerned you're going to wreck our dad's car and hurt us both, so you need to pull over. Let's stop and get some air because you are not fine. Okay?"

Beneath Daniel's palm, Sean's knuckles are tight and cold. But finally Sean sighs, and he pulls the car to the shoulder. They're still surrounded by forest, and they haven't seen another car in a long time. Daniel goes over to the driver's side door to pop the trunk, and he grabs a bottle of water from the cooler. Sean gets out and sits on the hood with his head in his hands. He mutters "Thanks" as he sips at the water.

Daniel sits on the hood beside his brother. Sean doesn't smell like pot or anything, so Daniel doesn't think his brother's high. But something is clearly wrong, and Daniel isn't sure what to do besides sit here, close enough that their shoulders touch, giving his brother some time, just being with him.

"Do you remember that shitty movie Dad made us watch?" Sean says finally. "_The Butterfly Effect?_"

"Oh yeah! It had Kelso from _That 70s Show_ in it. That movie was real bad."

"Yeah, sometimes Dad has awesome taste in movies, and sometimes it's real shit," Sean says. "Anyway, you—er, someone I care about brought it up recently. And I'm thinking about how the guy in that movie kept trying to make things better, but it turns out that everything is, like, interconnected. So if you change one thing, it ripples out and fucks up, like, ten other things."

"And this has something to do with our grandparents' neighbor?"

"I just think things could have been really different for that kid."

"You know, it's not your fault, right? Like, there's no way it could be your fault. And even if you, I dunno, somehow had done something, you didn't make them choose to get into a fight. You didn't drive the truck that hit him. Sometimes things just happen because they're coincidence. Sometimes people do things and it's not your responsibility." Daniel can't stop himself from thinking about Noah. How Noah hasn't texted him back or said anything to him in months. "Sometimes people make choices, and they suck, but they don't really have much to do with you. You know?"

Daniel feels his brother's hand on his head, messing up his hair. He wants to protest, but it's so gentle, and his brother is so—Upset? Broken?—that he doesn't say anything.

"Thanks, _enano_. I think I just need a minute to sit here, then I'll be good to drive."

They sit there for way longer than a minute, with the breeze rustling the trees and the birds cawing overhead.

When they get back into the car and Sean starts the engine, Daniel grabs the aux cord.

"Dude, driver gets control of the music," Sean says.

"First, not fair because you're the only one who can legally drive," Daniel says. "And, two, maybe the reason you're so sad is because you keep listening to this sad, Irish dude and his sad, Irish songs."

"They're good, though."

"One of the choruses was literally 'I can fuck up anything.' And I'm pretty sure one of these songs was about how some girl who broke up with him reminds him of cutting himself when he was a kid. The last line was something like 'my stupid, screwed-up, screwed-over, broken, stupid heart.'"

"Okay, one, you are leaving out a _lot_ of the song's nuance, and, two, the line is 'my patched-up, patchwork, taped-up, tape-deck heart.'"

"Dude, that's _way_ sadder than the thing I said!"

"Oh, and what are you going to put on?" Sean says. "Mumble rap? Some Instagram rapper who's named after an anxiety medication? I can see your phone screen. Your music is way more of a bummer than mine. You listened to a song literally called 'SAD!' by Triple-X Temptation on repeat all the way to Claire and Stephen's."

"Oh my god, that is not even close to how you say his name. You are so cringey. How did I ever think you were cool?" Daniel plugs the cord into his phone and scrolls through his Spotify. "Give me a sec. I am going to blow your mind with how fire a DJ I am. Here we go."

Daniel hits play.

* * *

**Soundtrack: "Banquet"**

**by Bloc Party**

* * *

Guitar jangles through the speakers, followed by a British singer.

"You remember this song?" Daniel asks. "I don't think I've heard it since I was a kid."

Sean laughs, a really genuine laugh. "Yeah, bro, I remember this song."

"We used to play it all the time on _Guitar Fighter_. You never could beat my high score."

"That's because you always played on easy mode."

"Whatever," Daniel says. "You're just jealous that I'm the better guitar player and I have better dance moves." He moves his shoulders side-to-side, slides his hips as far as the seatbelt will let him. And he can feel his older brother rolling his eyes, but Daniel keeps doing it.

He thrashes and moshes as much as he can, and then Sean is bobbing his head and laughing and dancing and singing along too.

And they keep on, a Diaz-brothers dance party, like neither of them have a care in the world.

* * *

_a heart of stone, a smoking gun_

_i'm working it out_

_why'd you feel so underrated?_

_why'd you feel so negated?_

_turning away from the light_

_becoming adult_

_turning into my soul_

_. . ._

_and if you feel a little left behind_

_we will wait for you on the other side _


	27. Episode Three: The Wilderness - Nine

The next day, Sean and his brother stop for lunch at a trashy diner somewhere in northern Nevada. It's the only sign of human life they have seen for miles. The air inside is heavy with grease, and they order artery-clogging cheeseburgers. Sean is almost finished with his burger when he feels his phone vibrate.

It's a message from Toby: _Things are getting pretty craaaazy here in Daytona_

Attached is a photo of Toby and Diego posing in speedos. Both of them are in their hotel bathroom, mugging at the mirror. Diego is a little husky, so part of his stomach spills over his black and green camo-print brief. Toby is kind of twiggy, wearing a suit with purple and blue trim. He looks good in it even though he's trying to be funny.

_Lol you guys actually wearing that to the beach?_ Sean texts back.

_Yeah it was Diegos idea straight guys are weird_, Toby says. Then he adds, _Wish you were here in one too ;)_

_Haha I have a runners body I would look awful in a speedo. Too many ribs showing_, Sean says.

_I wouldn't be looking at your ribs, _Toby texts, followed by, like, a dozen eggplant and sweat emojis. _Seriously I wish you were here. I miss you and kind of wish I was curled up in your arm on the beach speedo or no speedo_

_I miss you too,_ Sean sends.

Then he types: _Te amo_. He catches himself before he hits Send, rereads it, changes it to English, then deletes the whole message

He can't say "I love you" to Toby. That's crazy. Yet he typed it without thinking about it, so, deep down, it's probably true.

Which sucks. He reviews their conversation. Who sends flirty texts from spring break and says "I wish I was curled up in your arm" to someone who _isn't_ their boyfriend?

But they're not dating. Whatever they are is messy and confusing and increasingly frustrating and Sean doesn't know what to make of wanting more and—

"Hey, Sean, is something up?" Daniel asks from across the table. He wipes ketchup off the side of his mouth with the back of his hand.

"It's nothing," Sean says, setting his phone beside his plate. "Just stupid drama."

"I'm in tenth grade. I spend my whole day surrounded by stupid drama. I'm a stupid-drama expert," Daniel says. "You can talk to me about it."

"It's cool," Sean says, but Daniel kind of hangs his head. They've been getting along pretty well since Beaver Creek, and it stings to shut him down like this. But this is Sean's problem, and Daniel is the little brother. This isn't the type of thing you burden your _hermanito_ with.

Their waitress walks up to the table. She has light-brown hair and intense cheekbones. There's this thing in art where the more lines you put on a character's face, the older they look, and this lady has the lines of a hundred-year-old, even though she's probably younger than Dad. She has a sick sleeve of tattoos, mostly flowers, that runs down one of her arms, and there's a butterfly tattooed on the other. She's been real nice, and she refills their water glasses. "You boys need anything else?" she asks, her voice sounding exhausted even though there are only five customers here.

Sean and Daniel both say they are good, and when she walks out of earshot, Daniel says, "On her nametag, her name is spelled weird. Who writes _Sera_ with an_ E_?"

"I don't think I can judge other people's names. _Sean_ definitely doesn't sound like it should be spelled _S-E-A-N_," Sean says. "In Spanish, her name means 'this thing or whatever will happen.'"

Daniel spins the straw in his glass of water, and ice cubes clink together. "So this is something I have always wondered. . . how come you can speak fluent Spanish and I can't?"

"Dude, you're a better guitar player and dancer than me. You have to let me have something."

"It's a serious question," Daniel says.

"I'm not sure, exactly," Sean says. "You know how Dad is, like, super proud of his heritage and that he's an immigrant and all that?"

"Yeah, he should be. It's pretty badass," Daniel says. "I can't imagine how scary it is to go to a country where you don't know anyone, don't know the language, and just start over with nothing. I couldn't do that."

Sean drums his fingers on the table; that is exactly what Daniel would have went through if they had made it to Puerto Lobos. If Sean had asked him to hurt all those cops at the border. If it wasn't important to Sean that he not be a criminal.

If Sean could ask Daniel to make sacrifices instead of taking them all on himself.

"Anyway, Dad spoke Spanish to me all the time when I was little," Sean continues. "I only really remember him speaking English when he talked to Mom or if we were out somewhere. I don't know if he was just more comfortable with Spanish because English was still new to him, or if he just intentionally wanted to pass his heritage to me. Probably a little bit of both. But by the time you were born, things in this country were changing. Do you remember when Trump got elected?"

"I was too young to understand it, really," Daniel says. "But I remember everyone was kind of on edge. I remember you and Dad watching one of his speeches and just being real quiet. I didn't know if you two were scared or angry or what."

"Probably both," Sean says. "But it wasn't Trump, really. It was . . . people got shitty. I remember some guy following me and Dad around a store to make sure we didn't steal anything. Or I'd . . . hear stories about some sixteen-year-old kid stopping for a nap on the side of the road, only to have some assholes threaten to beat him down if he didn't sing in Spanish to them because he was in the 'wrong country.'"

Sean fingers his ribs. He can still remember those blows he got the last time he was in Nevada. His heart flutters a little, like he might have another anxiety attack. He slows his breathing, and it seems to keep his heart at the right rhythm.

"I read some things in social studies about how people weren't doing well, and they needed someone to blame," Daniel says. "Like people worked harder, made less money, started having less, so they had a lot of things to be angry about. It just sucks that they took it out on people who look like us."

"Yeah," Sean says, taken back because he wasn't expecting a socio-political analysis from his kid brother. But, then again, Daniel isn't really a kid anymore, is he? "So shit like that was going on long before 2016. Even when Mom was pregnant with you, I remember Dad scolding me for speaking Spanish in public. So . . . with all of that, he just didn't speak Spanish as much when you were born. I don't know if he was forcing himself to speak English more in case he slipped up in front of some assholes or if he was trying to help you 'pass' as 'more American' or what. But the short version is that he just didn't talk to you in Spanish much, and it kind of sucks that you didn't get to learn."

"It does suck," Daniel says. "You and Dad have, like, this private thing that's just between you two, and it makes me feel left out. Especially since you both slip into Spanish when you have real heart-to-hearts."

"I didn't realize we were leaving you out like that. That must feel pretty lonely," Sean says, watching his brother nod. "I can try to teach you, if you want. Here's a phrase: _Eres mi hermano_."

"I know that means 'you are my brother.'"

"Okay. How about this: _Te quiero_."

"I know how to say 'I love you.'"

"Oh, you do? Because you acted like you didn't at Christmas," Sean says, gently kicking his brother under the table, and Daniel chuckles. "I can keep teaching you, bro, but it sounds like you're good. That's really all the Spanish you need."

"I'm pretty sure there's a little more to it," Daniel says with a smile.

"Well, yeah. Let's say that you have someone, like a girl, that you're really into. After you've been together for a while, you might tell her: _Te amo_."

Sean glances at his phone sitting on the table. Obviously, he and Daniel had some heavy, serious conversations when they were on the run. But he never talked about his personal stuff with his little brother. They never got into things like family or relationships or identity or politics. But Daniel is sixteen now. He has bigger things in his life than just superheroes and video games and who picked him last for dodgeball. He can probably understand the bigger stuff now.

And what did Dad say? That trusting him might help? That being strong for someone else lets you be strong for yourself?

"So, uh, do you want to know what my texting drama was?" Sean asks.

"If you want to tell me, sure," Daniel says, trying to be cool. "I mean, I _love_ drama. Actually, I don't love drama. But I do really want to know who you spent five minutes deleting text messages over."

The paper wrapper from Sean's straw rests on the table. He touches it with his finger, pushes it slowly so it crawls across the table like it's a snake. "So there's this guy in Savannah named Toby. And we are kind of together, but we kind of aren't. We do 'relationship stuff'."

"What's 'relationship stuff'?"

Sean sighs. "We have sex."

"Ah."

"So neither of us are dating other people. He's really sweet. And I really like him, and I think he really likes me back. But he won't be my boyfriend, and I don't get why, and so I don't know what we are, and that sucks."

The straw-wrapper snake has reached the end of the table, and Sean looks up. His brother is staring at a fork that he tinks against the side of his plate.

"Have you asked him to talk about it?" Daniel says.

"Kind of. He said I hadn't brought it up in a while, so I did, and he said he needed time to think and we should talk about it for real after spring break." Sean wraps the straw wrapper around his finger. "But that sounds like he's just kicking the can down the road, and I don't know if we'll talk about it. I worry that I'll just be left wondering."

"That sucks. Somebody not talking to you about things sucks. The not knowing, the not being able to explain or be heard out . . . that really sucks."

"Yeah, it does."

"I'm sorry you are dealing with that."

"It's fine. Thanks for listening to my dumb drama."

It's far from the biggest thing Sean has ever carried, but it's weird. Offloading some of it, letting his brother help does make it feel better.

Daniel drums his knuckles on the table. "So, I'm sorry if this is rude or awkward, but you said Toby was a guy, so I have to ask . . . are you gay?"

Sean laughs. "I don't think so. I like guys, yeah, but I like girls too. I think I like girls more, actually. If we have to label it, I'm bisexual. Are you cool with that?"

"Of course I'm cool with it. I just wanted to know. No one's ever 'come out' to me before." He taps his fingers on the table again, a rhythm that sort of sounds like the theme to _Terminator_. "Does Dad know?"

"I told him back in January."

"How did he take it?"

Sean laughs again. "Well, he was . . . really awkward. Surprised. But . . . he also said he loves me and he doesn't care who I'm with as long as they are good to me and make me happy. So, overall, I think he handled it okay."

"That's good. Dad's a cool dude. It, uh, would have sucked to find out he wasn't cool with it." Daniel fidgets some, scratches the back of his neck. Then, suddenly, he says he has to go to the bathroom, and he gets up from the table.

Which is weird. Sean isn't sure what to make of it, but Daniel leaving gives him a chance to deal with the much bigger things on his mind than Toby.

He picks up the cell phone. Last night at the campsite, they had no signal, so he couldn't look anything up. And the rest of the time, he's been driving. But that comment Daniel made about the 'hippies' hit by the train has stuck with him, and he pulls up an article from Beaver Creek's local news. It describes the victims as "transients," a man and a woman, but that's it. No names. No identification.

They could be anyone, really. Hundreds of people must hop on those trains, from bored teenagers to adventurers to kids just trying to escape bad situations. The chance that Sean knows the victims is astronomical.

But he searches for Cassidy, Finn, Hannah, and the others anyway. It isn't like any of them have social media. And, shit, except for Finn, he doesn't really know any of their last names. And he realizes that he might not even know most of their _real_ names.

Cassidy was his first time, and he maybe doesn't even know her name. That's . . . he doesn't know what that is. There's not a name for the feeling you get when you realize you know nothing about the girl you were most vulnerable with.

The only thing he can find about any of them is an article about Finn McNamara and his brothers' arrests for stealing and stripping cars.

His chest already feels like it's going to collapse over what happened to Chris. Chris is dead in this life; he isn't dead in the other. Sean can tell himself that he didn't drive the truck and he didn't cause the drunken fight, but Sean Diaz changed the past, and because of that, Charles never opened up to him and Daniel was never Chris's friend, and now someone who helped them out is dead.

And his gut keeps screaming at him that the people who died under the train in Beaver Creek are Finn and Cassidy. They had zero reason to ever pass through Beaver Creek again, let alone stop there. It's _impossible_ that it's them, but, also, it _has_ to be.

This is maybe worse than Chris's death. Because how can he ever _know_?

Sean squeezes his cell phone between his hands and presses it to his forehead. Maybe Max's theory is right. Maybe their friends are dead because he's trying to get closer to his brother. Maybe if he just goes back to being a self-centered flake who walks out of relationships and isn't there for people, maybe the universe will leave him alone. Maybe he should just end the road trip, drive back to Seattle, tell Daniel to fuck off, and never call or text again.

But how can he do that? How can he really live without his brother?

There's no good option.

There's never a good option.

"Why the fuck is there never a good option?" Sean mutters.

"Are you okay, kid?" the waitress asks. She's standing over his table holding the check.

"I'm fine," Sean says, sitting back. He rubs his forehead where the phone has made an imprint. "I was just . . . thinking."

The waitress stares at him. "I recognize that look in your eyes. You've seen some things. You've got the eyes of someone who has carried the weight of a lot of mistakes on his shoulders."

"That's an understatement. How do you know that?"

"I see those same eyes every time I look in a mirror. I've also made a lot of mistakes. Some pretty big ones, probably bigger ones than you have," she says, smiling sadly. She sets the check down on the table, and Sean notices the puncture scars from needles on her arm.

He also notices a tattoo near her wrist that says:

_This action will have consequences._

"What's up with the tattoo?" Sean asks.

"That's a long story."

"Can you give me the short version?"

"I don't just share it with strangers."

Sean glances at the restroom door. Daniel still isn't out yet, which is concerning. Daniel doesn't like public restrooms, and even if he is taking a massive dump, he should be out any second now.

"I'll tell you the short version of mine," Sean offers. "I did some time in jail because I took the fall for someone I care about. And now I'm on a road trip to try to repair my relationship with my little brother. But I'm worried that spending time with me is just going to put him in danger, and I don't know what to do, and I kind of think the only way anything goes is that everything gets fucked up."

"In my experience, everything does get fucked up." The waitress scratches at the scars on her arm. "Look, I'll tell you this. There was someone I loved. Someone I wasn't good to. And I had a kind of second chance to talk to them and maybe have some kind of relationship with them. And I didn't take it because I thought I would hurt them. And not long after, she died, and there's not a day that goes by that I don't regret the decision I made. So, I got the tattoo. Because all of our actions have consequences, even the actions we choose not to do. So if you want my advice, if everything is going to get fucked up anyway, you might as well have one hell of a road trip with your little brother. Spend the time you have with the people you love."

As the waitress walks away, and Sean pulls his credit card from his wallet, Daniel finally emerges from the bathroom. He insists that everything is okay, that he was just washing his face because he hasn't showered since Seattle. The edge of his hair isn't wet, but Sean doesn't press him on it.

"I can pay for lunch," Daniel says as he takes the bill.

"I have a job," Sean says. "You don't."

"One, Dad makes me help at his garage like he did you. And, two, my grandmother gave me twenty dollars yesterday."

So Sean throws a few extra dollars down on the table for a tip as his little brother pays, but it feels like his lungs are being squeezed by a trash compactor as they go out to the car. All he has done is cared about his little brother, his _familia_, tried to do what is right, and how has life rewarded him?

Life has taken his eye.

Life has thrown him in jail.

Life has killed his friends like it killed his father.

Sera has a point. If life is going to make him miserable, then there's no sense in being miserable on his own. Standing by the car, Sean fishes the keys from his pocket and dangles them from the end of his finger. "So, bro, you want to drive for a while?"

Daniel laughs at first. "Wait, are you serious? Dude, I only have my learner's permit. I can only drive with Dad."

"I know Esteban Diaz, dude, and I know he has been teaching you how to drive since you were, like, six. And we are in the middle of the desert. I bet we don't even see another car for the next three hours, let alone a police officer. Just don't suddenly turn into Dominic Toretto, and I think we'll be fine."

Daniel hesitates. It's so obvious that he wants to say yes, but he's a good kid, who can't get past the idea of breaking the law or driving his dad's car without permission. Sean shakes the keys again, and they jingle, a siren call that's a temptation that Daniel can't say no to. He takes the keys, sits down in the driver's seat, and Sean climbs into the passenger's side.

Daniel sticks the key in the ignition, but he doesn't turn it. Instead, he just sits there, hands on the wheel, staring down at it.

"Hey, bro, you forget how the car works or something?" Sean asks.

"No, I just . . . you're pretty cool, you know? You're just comfortable being you. The hair, the gages, the art and weird music, the kissing boys . . . you can just be Sean Diaz, and I think it's pretty cool how comfortable you are with yourself."

"If you say so," Sean laughs. "You know I take anxiety medication, and I worry, like, all the time, right?"

"You also cry in your sleep and have breakdowns on the side of the road," Daniel says. "But you're still confident in a way that I'm not."

Sean's never thought of himself as confident. It's hard not to think about himself as the quiet, introverted, borderline-emo kid he was at sixteen. But he's had to wrestle with so many difficult choices in his life that, sure, his quick-decision-I'm-winning-'cause-I'm-not-dead disposition probably comes off as confidence. "You know I think you're pretty cool too, right, Daniel? It's why I'm spending spring break with you instead of my friends and not-boyfriend."

Daniel shrugs. Then he sighs, sort of runs his hands over the steering wheel. "So when you came out to Dad, he was cool with it?"

"Yeah, bro, he was."

"Like, he was 100% okay? Even if he was awkward?"

"Why are you so concerned about Dad's reaction?"

Daniel takes a deep breath, the kind you take when you're about to dive under water. "I think I might be bisexual, too. I like girls, but I also like guys. I think I like guys a little more. I dunno. Maybe that makes me gay."

"Hey, buddy, don't get too hung up on labels. You're only sixteen. It's okay if you're still figuring things out."

"And you're cool with it? Me being bi or whatever?"

Sean laughs. "It would be pretty fucked up if I was hooking up with a dude but thought there was something wrong with you, right? Of course I'm cool with it. There's nothing wrong with you liking who you like or not even knowing what you like yet. I'm glad you told me." He reaches over and sets his hand on the back of Daniel's neck, and his brother's skin is cold. The kid kind of trembles, and this is clearly hard for him for whatever reason. "Hey, bro, you got a _papa_ and a brother who are going to support you no matter what. We just want you to be happy, okay? _Eres mi hermano. Te quiero. Te quiero mucho._"

Daniel sniffles, runs his fist across his nose. "Thanks, Sean."

"No problem, _enano_," Sean says.

Daniel is such a cautious driver that it takes them almost ten minutes just to back out of the parking spot. But, after he checks left and right, then left and right, then left and right one more time, they are finally on the road again. And Sean has opened up to his brother, just a little.

And, at least for now, the world didn't end.


	28. Episode Three: The Wilderness - Ten

If Sean ignores that they are going a full fifteen miles-per-hour under the speed limit, then Daniel is doing a pretty good job driving. The little dude is cautious in the way that a mouse is cautious with an owl overhead. His back is straight, his arms are rod-stiff, and his eyes bounce from the road to the mirrors like ping-pong balls. Sean almost starts counting the times he blinks, like Daniel did to him after Beaver Creek.

But Sean gets it. He remembers having his learners' permit. Those first times driving for real with Dad were intense.

He figures that Daniel has a handle on driving, so he goes back to his new focus: taking the waitress's advice to make this an _epic_ road trip. Las Vegas is coming up. He's never been to Vegas, so he starts searching his phone for things they can do with no money.

Most of the really awesome stuff takes money, though. Sean is skimming a Reddit thread about the cool things exclusive to guests in the hotels when, suddenly, Daniel brings the car to a stop on the side of the road. Sweat beads near the kid's hairline, and Sean doesn't think it's from the sun cutting through the windshield. "You alright, bro?"

"I'm not a good driver," Daniel says. "You should take back over."

Sean raises his eyebrow. "You've been doing a great job. I mean, sure, you kind of drive like a great-great-_great_ grandmother, but that's fine. Why are you so nervous?"

Daniel shakes his head. He shrugs. "It's dumb, but I feel like I don't _get_ driving."

"That's not dumb," Sean says. "But I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

"Dad _loves_ cars, right? Like, he lives and breathes automobiles, and I'm pretty sure I saw him bleed motor oil once when he cut himself chopping peppers. And, I know you're not a gear-head, but you get cars too. You used to help Dad in the garage sometimes, and I remember you having no problems driving with your permit, even if I teased you about wrecking the car. But me? This is _hard_. There are a million things to pay attention to, and I feel like I'm going to fuck up and lose my chance at my license or wreck Dad's car or hurt us or . . . "

"First off, let's take a breath, _enano_. Second, it's okay if it feels hard. You're _learning_ how to drive. It gets easier, but you have to keep doing it. Let me ask you this—what's the worst thing that has happened when you've been driving with Dad?"

"Oh, that's easy," Daniel says. "One time I stopped too suddenly at a stop sign, and Dad hurt his neck."

"Oh my god, that's it?" Sean bursts out laughing. "Dude, one time I blew through a red light, a truck almost T-boned us, and Dad, no shit, nearly had a heart attack. And the worst part was that even though I was totally freaked out, and he was super pissed at me, he didn't let me stop. He made me keep going. Because that's how it is sometimes. You fuck up, but you have to keep going."

"But I don't want to keep going if I'm going to fuck up and hurt us," Daniel says.

Out the window, there is nothing but miles of empty desert sand. "Pretty sure the only thing that happens if you fuck up is that the car gets dusty, bro. We take it through a car wash, and Dad never knows. But here's my next question—if you weren't so worried about fucking up, would you _want_ to keep driving? If the answer's _no_, then I'll switch back with you."

Daniel is quiet for a minute, and he chews on the back of his thumb. "I would want to keep driving," he says finally.

"Then keep driving, but, like, relax. I know it's not _that_ easy, but you have to keep in mind that you have driven for many, many hours, right? And for the vast majority of those hours, nothing has gone wrong. Dude, that means you can 100%, do this. I believe in you. You just have to believe in yourself, trust that you know how to do this, okay? And I promise—no matter how hard something is, if you keep going, it gets easier."

Sean watches his little brother's chest expand with a deep breath. "Okay," Daniel says. "If you say it gets easier."

Daniel turns the key in the ignition, and they continue on.

# # #

A few miles down the road, Daniel finally builds up the confidence to press on the accelerator. Slowly, the needle creeps from fifteen under the speed limit to only five. The tension in his neck and arms starts to go away. His hands warm with blood circulating through them again. He takes Sean's advice; he relaxes.

And, it turns out, driving his dad's car on an open road in the middle of the desert is pretty fucking cool.

His heart feels like it's overdosing on adrenaline, though. Part of it is the driving. But the past two days have been wild. He has met his estranged grandparents. Slept in the house his long-lost mother grew up in. And, not even an hour ago, he came out to his brother.

Holy shit, he really did that. He's never said out loud before that he's bisexual, let alone _told_ someone. But now that he has said it, to Sean of all people, it feels like letting out a breath he didn't know he had been holding.

He glances at Sean, who's sitting with a knee propped on the glove box, the unshaved part of his hair hanging over his forehead as he scrolls through something on his phone. Maybe Daniel's big brother really has changed. Maybe Dad is right. Maybe Sean deserves another chance.

When Daniel was little, he lived for his brother's attention. Sean was his hero. Sleeping in Sean's room always made him feel safe. Playing videogames with him always made him feel special. Any time he built something, Sean was the first person he wanted to show. At one time, he would have given _anything_ to be on a trip like this one, just him and his brother.

But then Sean went to high school and got 'too cool' for him. Suddenly the person at the center of his little world got tired of him.

And Daniel gets it. He's sixteen now. He wouldn't want to hang out with some annoying nine-year-old. He especially wouldn't want to hang out with nine-year-old Daniel Diaz; nobody really wants to hang out with sixteen-year-old Daniel Diaz either.

It still sucked, though. And it's hard to drop that wall around his heart, let his brother back in. If he keeps Sean out, then it will hurt a lot less when—no, not _when_ but _if_—it will hurt a lot less if Sean lets him down.

"Hey, did you bring any swim trunks?" Sean says, nose still in his phone.

"Um, no?" Daniel says. "The only thing I brought besides pants is a pair of athletic shorts."

"That should work. Wait, they're not white, are they?"

"They're black. Why does that matter?"

"Well, if they're white and get wet, then your junk shows, and that gets real awkward for everybody."

"So why do we need swim trunks in the middle of the desert?"

"I think I found something cool to do in Las Vegas."

"Isn't Vegas just casinos and showgirls? Are we doing some kind of underwater heist? I'm not going to end up half-dressed on a stage where people throw money at me, am I?"

"No money-throwing or stages, but you'll probably be half-dressed. I found this awesome-sounding pool party on the roof of one of the hotel-casinos that the guests have access to. It sounds wild. The pool is heated. There are, like, a dozen hot tubs. And a bar right next to the water! They also have a DJ and lights and lasers. Some people posted videos online, and it looks like a small music festival or something. They do it every night."

"I don't know, man," Daniel says. "I've never been to a real party before. They sound kind of . . . loud."

"I didn't like parties when I was your age either," Sean says. "But do you really not want to do this or are you just nervous again?"

Daniel shrugs. "Did you say the party was for guests? Isn't Las Vegas, like, hella expensive? How can we afford a fancy, Vegas pool party?"

"Let me worry about that part, bro. I am pretty sure I can pull this off."

"Why is there something to 'pull off'? We're not going to do an _Ocean's 11_ to get into a pool party, are we?"

Sean just chuckles instead of answering any of Daniel's questions.

It just reminds him that it's been a long time since he has felt like he understood his brother, if he ever has.

# # #

Sean takes over driving at the next gas station, and he drives them into Las Vegas just as the sinking sun paints the desert sky in red and orange. There are a lot of hurdles between them and the pool party, but Sean has broken out of a guarded hospital and an ICE facility, so how hard can it be to break into a swimming pool for tourists?

He parks the car at a Target away from the Vegas strip. It's free, and parking near the casinos and attractions sounds like a logistical nightmare. He grabs a pair of athletic shorts from his bag, Daniel does the same, and then Sean summons a Lyft to take them to the casino.

As the car turns onto the Vegas strip, Sean's senses are dazzled by a million brilliant lights. Every building seems impossible, like they are pulled from a videogame where the level-designers said "fuck it" and threw in everything. An Eiffel Tower. A Roman palace. A giant fountain with jets of water that shoot up in a synchronized aquatic ballet.

Thousands of people march up and down the sidewalks. Most are average-looking tourists and families, but a lot of the people are in costumes. Street performers are dressed as Elvis and characters from movies like, of all things, Freddy Krueger. A lot of the women are dressed like show girls. Sean does a double-take, and, yeah, that lady definitely had her boobs all-the-way out with only her nipples covered.

All of this spectacle hits him with this melancholy stab in his heart. Look at this—another example of all of the things he could have missed while rotting in a jail cell for being judged a criminal at sixteen.

"This is pretty cool, right, Daniel?" Sean says.

"It's way cool," Daniel says in awe, his neck craned upwards taking in as much as he can through the car's window.

Sure, this modern marvel in the middle of the desert is all around him, but that his sixteen-year-old brother, this mopey teenager, can have a moment of wide-eyed, little-kid-like wonder is the coolest thing of all.

The Lyft drops them off outside the casino-hotel with the roof-top pool party. Sean and Daniel go inside, and they stand in an aisle with dozens of people walking past them. To their left are rows of brightly-lit slot machines that seem to stretch forever. To their right are gaming tables—black jack, roulette, games that Sean only knows from watching James Bond movies with Dad.

They need a room key.

Though he can't see them, Sean knows there are security cameras everywhere. Since there are much bigger sums of money played at the gaming tables, the security must be tighter there. The best place to lift a room key is going to be the slot machines.

When he and Daniel were on the run, there were times when they were so hungry that Sean had to steal. He got good at picking marks because he had to. His target needs to be distracted. All of these people are gaming, so finding who is in deep will be key. Inebriation would help, and there are plenty of glasses of alcohol lying around. The most important thing is his own confidence. If you don't act guilty, you can get away with almost anything.

"I need you to do something," Sean says, setting his hand on Daniel's shoulder. "Walk beside me, and act casual, okay? We are just two kids, walking through here to get to Starbucks. Don't look at me unless I talk to you, alright?"

"Why?" Daniel says, clutching his athletic shorts in his hands. "What are you going to do?"

"Don't worry about it," Sean says, already scanning the gaming machines for a mark. He's only partly aware of Daniel walking beside him when he sees the perfect target: a balding man in a suit, three empty drink glasses on the small table beside him. He's sweaty. His tie is undone. He's been here for a while, but he keeps spinning the slot machine in a daze.

His room's keycard is right there among the empty glasses.

As they pass by him, Sean's fingers nimbly take the card from the table. The guy is so focused on the tumblers in front of him saying he's lost again, he never notices. One time at a farmer's market, Sean looked around to check if anyone saw him pocket an apple. Big mistake. He got totally busted. He and Daniel had to run. So he palms the keycard, slips it into his pocket, and never looks back until they get to an elevator.

The sliding metal doors close, and Daniel hisses, "Dude, what the fuck did you just fucking do? Did you fucking rob someone?"

"It's just a room key," Sean says, holding up the plastic card. "That guy can report it stolen at the front desk and get a new one."

"But you took it like it was nothing! When the hell did you learn to be a thief like that?"

"Look, it's just . . ." Sean sighs. "It's just something I can do. I picked it up traveling. It's not a big deal."

Sean double-checks a map on the side of the elevator. He has to scan the keycard on a panel before he can punch in the floor with the roof-top pool.

As the elevator lurches upwards, Daniel crosses his arms and leans against the wall. The inside of the elevator is lined with reflective metal, so Sean is surrounded by his brother's disapproving glower. "Dude, it is a big deal," Daniel says. "You took something that isn't yours. That's wrong. What would Dad say if you stole something?"

Sean starts to raise his voice. He's ready with a defense. But what _would_ Dad say about this? Sean looks down at the card that he took so easily. He read that you have to scan the card to get into the party, and it's charged to the guest's account. He was planning on using it to buy alcohol too. He told himself that anyone staying at this hotel could afford it, and they could always report the card stolen to dispute the charges. A crime that hurts nobody—but still a crime. Because the truth is that he's stealing, and he can rationalize it all he wants, but Esteban Diaz did not raise him to be a thief.

And Sean has fallen so far that he didn't even think about this being wrong.

In the other life, they went hungry for longer than they needed to. Because of Sean's pride. Because, even with Dad dead, Sean still cared what his father thought of him. It was important that, even when everyone said otherwise, the truth was that Sean Diaz was not a criminal.

But he made compromises. He had to. No way around it when he had to take care of Daniel.

But there's no reason to compromise here. He just stole because he wanted to get into a party.

Has he really slid so far from being someone his dad can be proud of?

"Dad would be disappointed, wouldn't he?" Sean says. "Look, I just . . . wanted to do something epic with you. I know you've had a rough year. There was that mysterious black eye you had around Christmas. I know you're anxious and sad. And, I'll be honest, life has kind of sucked for me recently too. I wanted us to do something fun. I wanted all of the bad stuff that has happened to us to . . . go away. For a little bit. I'm tired of feeling bad. I'm tired of you feeling bad."

Daniel's fist hits him gently in the shoulder. "Look, it's really obvious you are dealing with something big, Sean. And I know I haven't given you much of a chance lately. But I know you're trying. And, overall, this trip is already pretty epic. I don't need to break into some wild pool party. Spending time with my big brother is enough."

Sean lowers his head so he can wipe his eye. The elevator stops, and the door opens. They're immediately hit by the throbbing bass of some dope electronic music. But Sean hits a button. The door closes, and they go back to the first floor where Sean leaves the room key at one of the front desks, saying he found it lying on the ground.

# # #

Sean spends a couple of hours walking up and down the Las Vegas strip with his little brother. And it turns out, there is plenty to see without spending money or having to break into anywhere. However, there is still one law Sean figures it's okay to break, especially since Dad more or less gave him permission back in Seattle.

When they get back to their car in the Target parking lot, Sean goes inside the store to buy a six-pack of beer. After they arrive at the campsite just outside of Vegas and they have set up the tent, Sean sits on the trunk of his dad's car with his little brother. They're far enough from the city that the stars shine brightly overhead, twinkling through the infinity of space.

Sean takes one of the beers for himself, and he offers one to Daniel.

Daniel takes it, but he doesn't unscrew the cap. "I don't know. I've never drunk alcohol before."

"You are such an innocent little cinnamon roll, too good for this world," Sean says. "How are you such a better kid than me?"

"I had you as an example of everything _not_ to do," Daniel jokes.

"Well, you shouldn't drink if you don't want to. There is nothing wrong with not drinking. But . . . if you think you're going to have a first beer before you're twenty-one, then it would be pretty rad if you shared it with me. I'd consider it a kind of honor."

Daniel taps his fingers against the bottle for a moment, then he unscrews the cap. They clink their beers together, and Daniel takes his first drink. It makes him cough. "Dude, this is gross!"

"It gets better over time," Sean says.

"But why does everybody act like this is awesome if it takes effort to like it?" Daniel says. He takes another sip, still gagging.

"If you don't want to finish it, you don't have to," Sean says.

"No, no—it's that thing you said earlier. I have to keep going. This is one of those things that will get easier if I keep going."

"Okay, I really meant that for, like, the challenges life gives you. You cannot use that as a reason to get drunk," Sean says. "Shit . . . I'm a bad influence, aren't I?"

"Yeah, you are," Daniel says with a laugh. "You're the worst."

They lean on the car's back glass, looking up at the stars, drinking their beers in silence beside each other.

Sean is nearly to the end of his second beer and Daniel is still on his first when Daniel asks, "Did you ever get that wolf tattoo? The one you drew at Christmas?"

"Yeah!" Sean says. "Wanna see?" He has to pull his arm out of his sleeve in order to lift up his shirt enough to show off the family-of-three wolves tattoo he has on his chest.

Daniel shines the flashlight of his phone on it. "That looks a lot cooler than I thought it would."

Sean pulls his shirt back on. "So you thinking about getting one? Are we the type of brothers that get matching tattoos?"

"I don't know. Maybe we are," Daniel says, tilting his bottle back to finish the last of his first beer ever. "Hey, Sean?"

"Yeah, Daniel?"

"It's been cool. Going on this road trip with you. I'm glad I did it."

"Me too. I could probably go anywhere, and it would be pretty cool as long as it was with you."


	29. Episode Three: The Wilderness - Eleven

Sean wakes when the first hazy sunbeams creep through the thin canvas of the tent. His cell phone tells him that it's even earlier than he thinks.

And though it's early, it still sucks that Toby hasn't texted him back.

Before he went to sleep last night, Sean spent twenty minutes writing and rewriting a text message to his not-boyfriend. After all the revisions, he ended up sending a single phrase: _Te amo_.

And he has got nothing in return. Which, cool. It's cool. Toby is on the East Coast, so it was, like, 5:00 AM when he got the message. It doesn't mean anything that he hasn't replied. It's fine. It's totally cool.

Suddenly, Daniel lets out a snort. Sean rolls over in his sleeping bag, and a puddle of drool has formed below the corner of Daniel's mouth. It's pretty gross. But it reminds Sean of how seeing Daniel sleeping, safe and peaceful, always set a calm over him, no matter how rough the road currently was.

He saw this scene a lot, his brother slumbering in a sleeping bag beside him, when they were in California. With Jacob. And Hannah. And Cassidy and Finn.

Sean digs into his backpack, past his current sketchbook, underneath the few clothes he brought. He shoved _the_ sketchbook, the one he kept in the other life, way down to the bottom. As if he could bury what was written on its pages even as he carried it with him.

He turns to the pages where they were in Beaver Creek. Where they met Chris—Chris, who is dead.

Near the Chris pages is one where he met Cassidy. Sean almost forgot that he met her in Beaver Creek. The pages where he lived in California with her and Finn sting him with bittersweet memories. Those days and nights amongst the redwood trees were hard, but for the first time on the road, he felt like he had friends, a crew who had his back. For the first time ever, he felt free. Like he was unshackled by rules and expectations and could finally become Sean Diaz.

His friends in California were awesome. Cassidy and Finn were awesome.

He has no way of knowing if they are alive, but the anchor that pulls his stomach into his bowels tells him that they are dead. And even if they aren't, they don't know him. He realized yesterday that he doesn't know Cassidy's real name. But if he met the girl he gave his virginity to, or the boy who was the first guy he had a crush on—Sean would be a literal stranger to them.

They never met him, but they may have died because of him.

"It's not my fault," he whispers to the sketchbook. "I didn't drive the truck that hit Chris. I didn't make Cassidy or Finn get back on a train."

The only response he gets, besides the croaking of a desert toad, is an image that pops in his head of the waitress's tattoo: _This action will have consequences._

# # #

As Sean lets Daniel sleep, he opens his current sketchbook, one that he started only a month ago but has already filled with sketches working out ideas for Nickelodeon and school, sketches working out feelings about Sarah and Toby and Lyla.

He can't shake the feeling that he's only a few steps ahead of something really bad. And even though he has chosen to say _fuck it_, while on the run, he got used to calm moments being so rare that he learned to always savor them. So Sean draws this: his brother asleep in the dim sun, the morning after Daniel's first beer, the day after Daniel came out, and the first time Sean has felt close to him in a long time.

Sean is idly shading when Daniel yawns, stretches, and blinks his eyes open. He stares for a moment before he says, "Dude, are you drawing me? Don't be a creep."

"Sorry, bro," Sean says. "I got bored while you slept all morning."

"Dude, it's only 7:30," Daniel mutters, looking at his phone. "How long have you been up?" Suddenly, Daniel clutches his forehead. Without a word, he reaches into his backpack for his Tylenol. He downs a couple of pills with a bottle of water.

"You okay?" Sean asks tentatively.

"My headache is pretty bad this morning. It's probably just a hangover."

Sean laughs. "Bro, even though you are probably a total light-weight, you only had one beer. And I made you drink an entire bottle of water before I let you go to bed. There's no way you are hungover. Have you, uh, talked to Dad about these headaches?"

"It's not a big deal," Daniel says. "Don't worry about it."

"It might be a big deal," Sean says. But he isn't sure how hard he should push. If the headaches are a sign Daniel has an illness or something, Dad should take him to a doctor. Obviously.

However, what if they are related to Daniel's powers? One of Sean's fears was that someone would find out, like Lisbeth did. When that happened, she brainwashed Daniel, exploited him as a side-show attraction for her shitty church. Sean was able to rescue Daniel from a bunch of half-assed cultists in the desert. But how can he save Daniel from a medical research facility? Or, worse, some kind of Area 51 black-ops bunker?

So he decides to drop it.

# # #

After they pack up the tent and sleeping bags, Sean drives the car to the parking lot at the entrance of the campsite. There are pavilions here with picnic tables and public restrooms with running water. That bottle of water Sean made his brother drink before bed has caught up with Daniel.

"You drank three beers. How do you not need to pee?" Daniel asks.

"Just a bladder made of steel," Sean says. In truth, he pissed outside the tent twice this morning. It didn't seem weird, even though he was in full view of an RV. Homeless kids on the run don't really get to be choosey about bathroom privacy.

There are maybe six vehicles in the parking lot, and a couple of kids play near their parents who are sitting at one of the picnic tables. Sean sits on the trunk of Dad's car, and Daniel heads towards the restrooms, walking past a silver pickup truck. Something about the truck feels familiar, but Sean isn't sure why. It's a truck. They've driven past a hundred just like it on this trip.

Sean opens up Google Maps on his phone. They are about seven hours from Away, Arizona. Seven hours from the mother they haven't seen in fifteen years. Seven hours from the mother that Sean saw just five months ago in another life. Again, he types Mom's number into his phone. Showing up on her doorstep unannounced will be a bombshell, one she might not handle nearly as well as Claire and Stephen. But what does Sean say?

Everything sounds like a threat or a joke, and he has no idea how to explain why he knows her number or where to find her. Something about actually being in front of Mom, in person, seems like it will be easier to talk all this away.

And things with Daniel have been going so well these past couple of days. What if they get to Away, and meeting Mom is a disaster? What if Claire is right about Mom wanting nothing to do with them? What if Daniel resents Sean for putting him in the most awkward, painful situation of his life?

Sean sighs and presses his phone against his forehead. There are a lot of ways everything can get fucked up. Like always.

Sean's phone vibrates against his head. It's a text from Toby. And it's so long that it's cut off on his phone's lock screen. It's always good news when someone's response to "I love you" is an essay. Sean has waited all night for this message, but now, the longer he doesn't read it, the longer he can pretend he and Toby are still together.

If he doesn't read it, Sean can pretend that Toby says "I love you back" at the end.

The sun beats down on the back of Sean's neck, and it reminds him of how the sun hit his skin the first time he jumped off a high dive. He takes a deep breath and opens the message:

_okay you can't just hit me with the te amo when I'm in the middle of spring break dude. I was serious when I said I wanted us to talk AFTER spring break. I know I have kind of dodged the question about us being boyfriends and that is unfair to you. But I also have a lot of concerns. A LOT of concerns. Some of it is my own shit. Some of it is the way you treated sarah. I just really need a lot of reassurance from you that if we break up you don't do me like that. But all of that said I've partied with a few guys here and some of them have been really cute and really hot. But I was looking at this one dudes ripped chest and kept thinking about how I like the way your scrawny one has your ribs press against your skin when you take a deep breath. And I keep thinking about how these guys don't have your smile or they don't make me laugh like you do or how I'm happiest when I'm falling asleep with your hand on my stomach and our legs touching. So this is a really long way of saying that we need to talk when we see each other next week . . . but I think I have known for a while now that I te amo you too._

Sean rereads the last part, over and over, grinning like an idiot. Technically, it says "I I love you you too," but it still inflates his heart like a big, warm balloon. He types back: _If I knew your Spanish was so bad I would have just said I love you haha. _

Then he sends a heart emoji.

Toby sends one back.

Then Sean kind of hugs his phone to his chest. A cute, awesome guy just said he loves him. His brother is finally back on his side. His dad's alive, he's not in jail, and he has a job lined up with Nickelodeon. Why does he let all that bad stuff get up in his head? Why does he worry about shit? This has been a good morning, the best morning.

But then, across the parking lot, he sees two guys putting a cooler into the back of that silver pickup truck. One guy wearing a flannel shirt has a kind of messy, short beard you get from a few days without shaving. The other guy is kind of scrawny. Their skin is weathered from living in the Nevada desert. They look different in the daylight, so it takes Sean a minute to figure out how he knows them. And why they send a chill up his spine.

And the memory of bruised ribs.

"You're fucking kidding me," he mutters.

# # #

Daniel steps out of the bathroom and almost gets hit by a little boy chasing a soccer ball. "Whoa easy, little dude!" Daniel says.

"Sorry!" the kid says, kicking his ball back towards his brother near the picnic tables.

Daniel laughs. He had his first beer. He came out. His headache is dying down. And . . . he is maybe, actually bonding with his brother.

Sure, he knows that as they get closer to his mother Karen, the questions and the doubts will creep back in. But right now, everything seems pretty good. As he walks back towards the car, just before he gets to the asphalt of the parking lot, he notices something brown, yellow, and plastic in the sand. "No way!" he says, bending down to pick up a Power Bear action figure.

It's one of the new ones from the reboot that started airing two years ago. Daniel loved Power Bear when he was a kid, and even though he was way too old for it, he tried watching the new show but couldn't get past how they changed the main villain. But still, he made his brother play Power Bear with him as a kid and still has a few drawings Sean did of the hero in his room. Daniel has to show this to his _hermano_.

But as he walks past a silver pickup truck, he almost bumps into a man with a bad beard in a flannel shirt. "Oh, sorry, dude," Daniel says.

"What do you think you're doing?" the man says. "Did you just take that from that kid?"

"This?" Daniel holds up the action figure. "No, I found it on the ground. I guess it could belong to that kid. I'm just going to show my brother, then I'll ask about it."

"Jesus, Chad," a second guy, skinnier, says from the other side of the truck. "He's just a kid himself. It is too early in the morning for your shit."

"No, this is just like his kind, Mike," Chad says. "Coming up here. Taking things that don't belong to him. I know you aren't from here, boy."

"Uh, yeah, I'm not." Daniel blinks. "I'm from Washington. We're close to a major tourist attraction, so I'm pretty sure none of us are from around here."

"You got a real smart mouth on you, Pedro," Chad says.

"Oh, I see what this is," Daniel says. "You're trying to be a racist asshole. Can you just, I dunno, call me a _beaner_ or a _wetback_ or whatever so I can get on my day?"

Chad's eyes narrow like a bull's. "I don't like your tone, Pedro."

"I don't like your face, _Brad_." Daniel knows he shouldn't smart off, but what is this guy going to do? It's broad daylight. There's a family nearby. And Daniel can see his older brother watching from across the parking lot.

That's when Chad shoves him. Rough enough to make him step back but not hard enough to knock him down. The other guy, Mike, shouts at Chad to stop. It catches Daniel off guard; this guy is probably a bit unstable. Daniel could keep mouthing off. Or run. But before he can decide what to do, he sees Sean reach inside their car, pull out one of the empty beer bottles from last night, and walk towards them.

# # #

Sean isn't thinking conscious thoughts as he marches across the parking lot, grip tight on the neck of the glass bottle. This motherfucker in flannel who just shoved his brother is the same asshole who degraded him, tried to make him say horrible things in Spanish. Ordered him to sing, and when Sean refused, this man broke Sean's ribs. Sean had just lost his eye, was scared that he had lost Daniel forever. He was at his most vulnerable, was in the most need of kindness . . . and this asshole treated him like prey.

Sean swings the beer bottle into the bumper of the truck; the glass shatters, so Sean is holding an ugly dagger that can cut through skin like butter.

The man turns, and Sean points the broken bottle at his throat. "Get your hands off my brother," Sean says shakily.

"Holy shit," the smaller guy exclaims. "There's no need to do something stupid. Let's all calm down."

"What do we have here?" Flannel Asshole smirks. "You standing up for this dirty little thief?"

"He's not dirty," Sean squeezes the bottle tighter. His heart flutters. Looking into the man's eyes, Sean is once-again a scared, broken teenager standing outside a stolen car in the middle of the desert. He wills his voice to sound strong. "He's not a thief either."

"Shit, I was just joking around," Flannel Asshole says, holding up his hands. "You people get triggered so easily. But you're all just a bunch of savages who can only work things out through violence. And you wonder why all of us honest Americans say you make our country worse."

"You weren't fucking joking!" Sean's voice cracks. His eyes feel hot. "You aren't honest! You're the type of asshole coward who would hurt a sixteen-year-old kid, but only if he was vulnerable and if you thought you could get away with it! You wouldn't give a shit that he never hurt anybody and was just trying to get to his family! It's people like _you_ that make this country worse!"

A hard, course laugh erupts from Flannel Asshole's belly. "Jesus Christ, Juan, you are shaking. What are you going to do with that bottle, really? You gonna stick it in my belly? You gonna poke me in the eye? You don't have the guts."

The bottle feels like it a twenty-pound weight, like Sean can't hold it up. His stomach does flips, and that cold sweat is back over his body. Every part of him is screaming at him to run, like his muscles and bones remember what this man did to him in the desert.

"You're all the same," Flannel Asshole says. "You sneak up here. Get in people's business you have no place getting into. You're all dirty little thieves, taking things that don't belong to you."

The man turns towards Daniel.

The man reaches for Daniel.

In his mind, Sean sees his brother doubled-over in pain, broken and scared in the desert.

Sean throws his forearm into the Flannel Asshole's throat, presses it against his windpipe, forces the man against the side of the truck. Sean raises the jagged glass bottle to the man's eye, and this asshole is not smirking anymore. He's afraid. He's powerless.

This shit-stain's helplessness feels good. It feels vindicating.

"_No soy un ladrón sucio con un ojo. Este __es__ mi país, hijo de puta_," Sean hisses. "And I will fuck you up for touching _mi hermanito_."

# # #

_Holy shit_ _Sean is going to stab this guy. _

Daniel isn't very strong, but he dives between his brother and Chad, lifts Sean around the waist in something that's half-bearhug, half-football tackle, muscles straining as he caries his brother who is just-barely bigger than him.

At the same time, Mike leaps in to hold Chad back, and Daniel falls to the ground with his brother. The bottle shatters on the asphalt, and Sean immediately bounces back to his feet. Daniel barely gets up in time to catch him from diving back at the assholes by the truck.

"Dude, Sean, what the hell has gotten into you?" Daniel says, pushing his brother.

"I'm not going to let that guy shove you around," Sean says.

"So you're going to, what, stab him in the face? Get arrested? Go to jail?"

Sean's fist is tight, knuckles whitening. There's a sneer on his lips like he's an injured dog. But at the word _jail_, Sean's shoulders fall. His fist unclenches. Head down, he takes a step back without saying a word.

"Look, I think you kids should get out of here," Mike says, forcing Chad into the truck. Chad is shouting swear words, and Mike slamming the door on him barely muffles them. "Let's just go our separate ways. I don't see any reason for us to make a big deal out of this."

"I agree," Daniel says. The mom and dad by the picnic table are hugging their two boys, staring wide-eyed. Daniel turns to his brother. "Sean, let's get out of here before there's anymore trouble."

# # #

When Sean finally glances at the clock in the dashboard of his father's car, they have been driving two whole hours in silence. He doesn't remember driving this far. It's almost like he's blacked out. The only thing he's aware of is the spider-leg panic that tingles throughout his body.

He jerks the wheel, pulls into the first gas station, parking at the doors. "I need a minute," Sean says. "Don't worry—if that guy was going to call the cops or come after us, they would have caught up to us by now."

Daniel asks him to wait, but Sean just slams the car door and goes inside. He walks past the rows of snacks, straight to the restroom where he goes into a stall, bends down, and throws up into the toilet. He hasn't eaten this morning, so it's mostly acid that splashes into the water. Sean crouches on the blue tile, hand against the wall to steady himself, until he is sure his stomach is empty. A bitterness burns his throat.

When he rinses his mouth in the sink, he is surprised that he recognizes the person in the mirror. _What the fuck happened?_ _Was I really going to hurt that guy?_ He tells himself that he wasn't, that it was just a bluff; the guy was going to hurt Daniel, and Sean had to get him to back down.

But even though he doesn't think he could cut someone with a broken beer bottle, deep down, Sean really _did_ want to hurt him. He wanted to hurt that guy so bad.

Part of it was the shoving Daniel. But a lot of it was from being hurt himself.

Sean is a good person. He makes good choices. At least, he does his best to make good choices.

But all of that darkness and pain and fear is still inside him. He never knows when it will bubble up to the surface. When he'll have nightmares. When he'll start crying in the middle of watching movies with his family. He sets his forehead on the sink.

He tries to be a good person. He tries to keep everything together. He tries so goddamn hard to not be bitter or cynical or angry.

But life won't let him.

# # #

Daniel sits with the passenger's seat pushed back, his feet on the dash. He moves the arms of the Power Bear action figure back and forth. He didn't expect that picking up this hunk of plastic would lead to Sean almost stabbing someone. But Daniel always fucks things up. It figures he would do something that would land his brother in jail.

Finally, Sean comes out of the gas station and sits down in the car. "Hey, is that Power Bear?"

"I found it back at the campsite. That guy started being shitty to me because he thought I stole it from a kid," Daniel says. "Seriously, Sean, what the fuck? Are you just going to pretend everything is fine?"

"Everything _is_ fine." Daniel's brother has the nerve to smile.

"Oh yeah, it's super cool that you almost cut a guy's eye out like you were in a prison-yard fight."

"They don't let you have glass bottles in prison, actually," Sean says.

Daniel sets his feet on the floorboard. "Dude, can you cut the bullshit? Please?"

Sean rubs the tattoo on his arm of the single boy walking alone. "I got scared, okay? I thought that guy was going to hurt you. Like, really hurt you. I couldn't fight him, so I tried to scare him. That's all it was—to scare him, so he wouldn't hurt us."

"Sean, that guy was all talk."

"You don't know that." Sean shakes his head. "He was going to hurt you, Daniel. He was going to hurt you so bad."

"Bro, how can you know that?" Daniel squeezes the bridge of his nose. "You know what? Nevermind. The way you acted . . . the way you've _been_ acting. The stealing. The offering to break into Karen's room. These are the actions of a criminal."

Suddenly, Sean looks at him, wounded. Sean's voice cracks. "Don't call me that. I'm not a criminal."

"Then do you want to tell me why you have nightmares where you plead with someone to let you go? Where you keep repeating that you didn't do anything wrong? Look, I know something bad happened. I know you don't want to tell Dad about it. But, Sean, if you did something illegal or you are in trouble, you can tell me. Maybe I can help you figure it out."

"There's nothing to figure out," Sean says. "It's all in the past. Everything is . . . it's okay now."

"Is it?"

Sean bites his lip. And forces the fakest smile. "Yeah, it is."

"Goddammit, bro, don't fucking lie to me!" Daniel raises his voice. "I've spent sixteen years learning to see through your bullshit. Everything is not okay. You almost did a felony today, man."

"I only did that because he shoved you." Sean sighs. "All those things you mentioned, the breaking into Mom's room, the stealing at the hotel—all of that was for you, _enano_."

"Dude, don't call me '_enano_,' and do not drag me into this," Daniel sighs. "Don't do illegal shit and then try to blame me for you being a criminal."

"Well, I'm not a criminal."

"Really? You're stealing. And threatening people. And breaking into places you have no business breaking into. Bro, it sure sounds like you're a criminal."

"I. Am. Not. A. Criminal," Sean says with a cold, gravelly calm that feels like he's pointing at jagged bottle right at Daniel's throat.

It shuts Daniel's mouth like a punch.

It's probably only a few seconds, but it feels like Sean glowers at him in silence for a full hour. Finally, Sean starts the car and mutters, "I'm not a fucking criminal."

They get back on the road, and the only sound is the car's engine. Daniel stares at the stupid Power Bear figure that started this. Back when they were little and Sean would play Power Bear with him, Daniel thought his brother would always be there for him. But then they grew apart. And then he didn't know his brother anymore.

And these past couple of days have been . . . they've been awesome. It's not just that Daniel is friendless and desperate to connect with someone, but Sean has actually been an incredible person to talk to. Spending time with his big brother has made Daniel feel better. Like everything might be okay.

But can you trust someone who will stay in his grandparents' home but offer to break into a room they asked him to stay out of?

What about someone who steals from another person in a casino?

Or threatens to stab someone? And then says he's doing it for you?

How can Daniel trust Sean when Sean doesn't trust him? Daniel has listened to Sean cry in his sleep every night, but his brother still insists everything is fine.

Does he really know his brother? Did he ever?

# # #

A few miles down the road, Sean feels like garbage for yelling at his_ hermanito_. "Hey, Daniel," he says but gets no answer. "Daniel?"

When he glances at the passenger's seat, Daniel's head is turned away from him.

Daniel stares out the window. His earbuds are back in.


	30. Episode Three: The Wilderness - Twelve

Sean drives. Daniel stares out the window.

To break the silence echoing between him and his brother, Sean turns on his music, and one of his favorite songs comes up: "On the Flip of a Coin" by The Streets. Sean fell in love with this song because of how weird it is. It's hard to get into, which made it seem deep. And he was listening to it the day his dad was shot. It's the last song he heard as a kid, and one of the first songs he listened to after he changed the past.

Sean quietly sings the chorus:

_Turn your life on the flip of this coin_

_Turn upside a choice you'd normally avoid_

_And promise me you'll follow what it says_

_Whatever it says_

He knows the lyrics by heart, but as he mumbles through the pseudo-rapped verses, it's like he _hears_ them for the first time, the story about a kid whose life is at the whims of fate because he makes decisions by flipping a coin.

And the kid has to do things no kid should have to do.

And he can't get out of them.

And, supposedly, this is all to make him strong.

Sean lifts his foot off the pedal, and he pulls to the side of the road. He puts the car in park then sets his head on the steering wheel. Like he did just before he gave up at the border.

"Why did we stop?" he hears Daniel ask. "Bro, are you okay?"

And this is what Sean wants to say: _I wish I was sixteen again. Not just sixteen, but sixteen on October 27, 2016, the day before Dad got shot._ That was the last day that Sean was a normal kid, unbroken and untested. At one point, he would have given anything to have his dad back. And now that he's changed things, it's still not enough. Because he still carries his trauma like baggage. It is ink, spilling over his pages, ruining the art he makes with his family, his friends, and his maybe-boyfriend. Toby's right, in a way—he's caught up in the past. But it's not that he's staring at it. It's that he can't run away from it. He can't 'eternal sunshine' his brain into a spotless mind.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you, Daniel, back at the gas station," Sean says. "I shouldn't have done that."

"It's whatever . . . " Daniel says.

"No, it's not 'whatever.' And I shouldn't have threatened that guy. I know that was scary for you, to see me like that. I overreacted. I didn't handle it well. " Sean sits up and drags his hands over his face, and he remembers the way the scars on his cheeks felt against his fingertips; the scars are gone, but they haven't faded away. "That guy, I met him before. He humiliated me. He hurt me and scared me pretty bad. I was for real, legit afraid he would hurt you the same way."

"Sean, he didn't act like he knew you," Daniel says.

"He thought I was some 'illegal.' We all look the same to him." The lie, the half-truth feels uncomfortable. He promised Daniel in a hotel room long ago that they wouldn't lie to each other.

"But when would you have met him?" Daniel says, sitting up straighter. "That guy had Nevada plates. I don't think he gets out much. Have you been to Nevada before?"

Sean stares out over the desert. There's no way he can tell Daniel the truth, not all of it. But lying makes things worse. Running from things makes things worse. So what else is there to say? "Yeah, _enano_, I have."

Daniel pushes a hand through his hair, making it stick up like the ruffled feathers of a bird. "When were you in the Southwest? Why were you here? Wait . . . have you . . . did you see our mom?"

Sean takes a deep breath, holds it as he drums his index fingers on the steering wheel. Finally lets it out as he nods. "I got into some trouble. And Mom helped me out."

"No way. No fucking way." Daniel shakes his head. "This has to be bullshit. You're making this up."

"You can see through my bullshit, right? Am I bullshitting you now?"

Daniel's eyes narrow, like he has some kind of X-ray vision he's using to peer into Sean's brain. His eyes soften as his bullshit detector comes up with nothing. "But why would Karen help you after all this time? How did you find her? Or did she find you? Why did you even give her a chance? All my life, you have _hated_ her. The idea that you would accept help from her . . . I don't think you would do it even if, like, Dad died and we were dirt-broke and homeless and about to sell our bodies to crack dealers."

"You're not wrong." Sean chuckles, a sad chuckle that stings his eyes. "I was . . . things had to get pretty bad."

"Just what kind of trouble were you in?" Daniel asks. "And how did you keep all of this from Dad?"

"It was bad enough trouble that I accepted Mom's help," Sean says. "I know that's a total non-answer, but . . . I do want to tell you and Dad everything. I just . . . can't."

"Yes, you can." Daniel leans forward. "You just have to open your mouth and let the words fall out. It's not that hard to be honest, dude."

Daniel's eyes are so . . . fuck, they make Sean feel so shitty. How can this kid be a sullen teenager and still have the same wide, vulnerable eyes he had when he was ten? How can Sean be 'not close' to his brother and still feel the weight of disappointing him? The poor kid. He's wondered about his mom his whole life, and now he thinks Sean has answers—which Sean does, but not ones that he can give that make sense.

How can Sean explain that he can Billy Pilgrim through time?

That their dad died?

That Daniel is a superwolf?

That there is another timeline, where they are the wolf brothers against the entire world?

"I can't right now." Sean sets his hand on Daniel's head, smoothes his brother's hair back into place. "I am sorry, _enano_. I don't think I have the words to tell you in a way where I don't sound like I am lying or that I am crazy."

"Dude, you know how sketchy you sound, right?" Daniel says. "You drop this bombshell on me, but you can't answer _any _questions about it? I'm not trying to start a fight with you, but after everything else, why should I trust you?"

"I don't know. Maybe you shouldn't," Sean sighs. "How about this? If you don't ask me any questions about what's happened to me or about me meeting Mom or the bad dreams or the panic attacks or any of the stuff I have been holding back . . . if you can wait until _after_ we talk to Mom, then I will let you ask me anything you want. And I will answer you. Truthfully." Sean holds out his fist. "I'll tell you everything. We got a deal?"

Daniel stares at Sean's fist, arms crossed, not reaching for it. The next song in the playlist ends before Daniel says, "You have to promise that you're not going to do anything else shady on this trip. No more things that are crime-adjacent, okay?"

"I promise, bro," Sean says. "I will be a model citizen. Totally upstanding. Someone you can be proud to be related to."

Finally, Daniel taps Sean's fist with his own. "Your big mystery better not be that your emo ass got dumped by some girl or that you got your first _C_ in one of your classes. I will make fun of you so hard."

"Dude, school is, like, the one thing I am not failing at," Sean says as he starts the car back up, eying the gray clouds rolling in across the sky.

# # #

As they drive through Arizona, as they stop to eat a lunch of the food Dad sent, it is maddening to talk about music and videogames and Sean's Nickelodeon prospects when _all_ Daniel can think about are questions about his mom. _What is Karen like? What does she do for a living? Does she have a new family? Is she cool? How the hell did she bail you out? Seriously, Sean, what the fuck did you do? _

And then there is the 1,000,000-dollar question: _Why did Mom leave?_

And the answer Daniel already suspects: _It was me, wasn't it?_

Some of Sean's weirder music comes up in the playlist, and he's really vibing to it, so it gives Daniel a break to think. The past few hours—no, the past few days—have been wild. He and Sean seemed to be becoming friends. But then Sean almost fucking stabbed a dude! And Sean has secretly met their mom—with no one knowing—like a plot twist from a daytime soap opera.

Daniel opens his cell phone, navigates to his Instagram. He hasn't posted on it in months, not that there is anyone who would "like" any of his posts. There's one from back in September, him and Noah on the first day of school. They had coordinated their t-shirts: Noah's was Iron Man, Daniel's was Captain America. They were going to have an awesome school year then Daniel fucked everything up.

So on one hand, Daniel understands Sean saying he can't talk. Because some things are awkward, embarrassing, and painful to talk about.

But there's so much about Sean meeting their mom that does not add up.

What kind of trouble would Sean be in that he would turn to _Karen_ for help? Sean would get irrationally upset as a teenager if someone suggested that their mother was not history's greatest monster. When Sean was pitching this trip, he said he knew where Karen was "about five years ago"—but Sean was living at home then. He was just sixteen. Daniel and Dad would have noticed if Sean had gone to Arizona. He wasn't _that_ good at sneaking out.

Sean's head still bobs to the beat of his music. He's not focused on much except the road, so Daniel opens his messages with Dad and sends: _Serious question and please answer honest what do you think is up with Sean?_

Dad is at the garage, so Daniel is surprised when the three dots immediately appear. Dad types for a while but the message is only: _I do not know. Did something happen?_

_I know you don't 100 percent know but you always figure things out with me so I know you have a guess about sean, _Daniel sends.

_That is not true I don't know whats going on with you right now,_ Dad texts. Then he sends a second one:_ But I think your brother did something he is not proud of but it is something that he should not be ashamed of. Hes a good kid._

Daniel taps his phone on his chin. Dad has always taken Sean's side, blinded himself to the fact that his older son can be a shithead. And there's proof Sean is not a 'good kid.' He threatened that guy. He stole. He offered to break into a room Claire asked him to stay out of. Sean totally flipped his shit over being called a criminal. Daniel doesn't want to worry his father. And there is something in his DNA that says he shouldn't rat his brother out like this. But it also seems like Sean already is in trouble. Daniel sends: _Do you think Sean could ever do something illegal?_

_It's illegal to drink and smoke pot when you are a teenager so yes I think he can_, Dad says.

_But I mean something SERIOUSLY illegal like something real bad like something he could go to jail for_

_Your brother is not that kind of person. He would never do something that would send him to jail. Did something happen? Your last texts made it sound like you were getting along with him_

Daniel almost jumps in his seat as the back of Sean's hand hits him in the chest.

"Come on, bro," Sean says. "This is 'Feel Good Inc.' by the Gorillaz. We used to drive Dad crazy by playing this on repeat when we were kids. You have to help me sing this chorus."

Daniel smiles and sings along. But as his voice forms an anti-harmony with Sean's off-key singing, he sends Dad one more text: _Everything is fine but something is definitely wrong with sean_

He leaves out the last part of his message: _And Sean is definitely hiding something, something big._

_Either that,_ Daniel thinks, watching his brother stumble over the rapped verses of the song, _or he is totally full of shit._

# # #

Sean's palms sweat against the steering wheel. There's an uneasiness in him. It's the way the clouds overhead are getting darker, but it's also what he told his brother. That Mom helped him out was the truth . . . but when they meet her and she has no memory of it, it's going to sound like total horseshit.

But when they pull into the tiny, makeshift community of Away, a sweet rush of memories floods Sean. He and Daniel were not here long, but the people are permanently tattooed on Sean's heart. Their kindness after months of suffering made the time he and Daniel lived here with Mom special. Sean felt happy. And safe. Like everything would turn out okay.

It was the last time he could believe that.

A dust cloud rises from the ground as Sean parks the car a few yards in front of Mom's trailer. He gets out, and Away is both the same and very different. Arthur and Stanley sit on their porch beneath their rainbow Pride flag. Sean grins and almost runs up to them, but they are already watching him suspiciously—he's a stranger in a place that doesn't get visitors. So, instead, Sean just waves, and Stanley waves back, eying him cautiously.

In the other life, Joan lost her battle with cancer. Her trailer is gone, but her sculptures are still here. They are smaller than Sean remembers because Daniel's powers weren't here to do the heavy lifting, but there is something powerful about knowing that even if she is gone, Joan's art lives on.

David's trailer is gone too. Before Sean changed the past, Mom mentioned that David was reconnecting with his ex-wife. Maybe he did that in this life too. Maybe someone got a truly happy ending after all.

Sean hopes so.

David always seemed like he had grown a lot, like the death of his step-daughter had really changed him.

Suddenly, hazy recollections hit Sean. David used to live somewhere in Oregon, not-too-far from Beaver Creek. And his stepdaughter was shot by some kid at school. And her name was . . . it was Chloe.

There is _no way_ that could be the same person as Max's Chloe, right?

Daniel kicks a rock that goes skipping across the dirt. "When you said this place was small, you were really underselling it."

"Yeah, it's not even a town, really," Sean says, shaking off his thoughts about Chloe and David. "Just a bunch of like-minded people living on the outskirts, away from people who want to hassle you for just existing."

"It's just some trailers and piles of junk in the middle of the desert," Daniel says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Why are you hating on this place, bro? I think it's pretty awesome."

"Everything you like is weird, so of course you would think this is awesome." Daniel sighs. "I don't know what I expected, but I guess I always pictured that our Mom left us for . . . something better. This does not look better than our house in Seattle."

Sean bites his lip because, while Daniel has a point, there was definitely a time when this place felt like home. "Maybe it's not about this place being 'better.' It might be more like this place is what you 'need' when you need it. How are you feeling about all this? We're about to knock on the door to that trailer up there and meet your mom."

"I feel like our mom left us to live in a trailer. And like my brother is keeping things from me." Daniel shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be shitty. I don't know how I feel. Scared? Excited? Frustrated? I know it's dumb, but I mostly keep thinking that I hope she likes me."

Sean squeezes Daniel's shoulder so tightly he can feel the kid's bones. "Of course she'll like you. Everybody likes you, _enano_."

"That's not really true, but okay."

"One thing though . . ." Sean says, rubbing the back of his own neck. "Maybe don't mention her helping me out."

"What? Why not?" Daniel asks.

And what should Sean say to that? _Well, you see, bro, she isn't going to remember because it didn't happen in this timeline? _So instead he says, "Just don't . . . okay?" and immediately cringes. He hated when Dad's answer to something was _Because I said so,_ and he knows this never worked with Daniel when they were on the run, but Daniel doesn't argue and Sean doesn't have anything better.

They walk up to the door of the trailer. As Sean is raising his fist to knock, he feels the apprehension in his chest. What if Claire is right? What if this version of Mom does not want to see them? But, like most of his life for the past five years, Sean is in too deep to turn back now.

So he raps on the metal door.

And when it opens, there is Mom, looking exactly like she did the last time she visited him in prison. That's a wild thing about her. For all of Karen Reynolds not wanting to be pinned down, she's kind of resistant to change.

The color falls out of her cheeks. Her eyes widen to circles that consume most of her face. "Esteban?" she says.

"Close." Sean smiles. "Everyone says I look like him now."

"Sean?" she says, raising a palm to her mouth. "And is that . . . Daniel?"

"Yeah, it is," Sean says. "Hey, Mom. It's good to see you again."


	31. Episode Three: The Wilderness - Thirteen

Mom stands in the doorway, stammering but not really saying words. Sean feels cruel, like his and Daniel's presence is throwing all of her mistakes directly in her face, dragging her across a bed of nails made of the failures of her past.

Sean wants to fling his arms around her, pull her into a tight hug, to tell her that it's okay and that this isn't a confrontation but also that he has _missed_ her. It has been difficult these past few months to have his freedom but be unable to contact the mother he reconciled with, the mother who left him as a kid but was there when he needed her the most.

But Sean is afraid the hug will make her crumble like the dirt around her trailer. So he puts on a gentle, practiced smile and says, "I know this is a shock. And a little awkward. But why don't we start with you asking us inside, maybe offering us some water, then we can sit around and talk. Sound okay?"

Mom nods. Mumbles a few words that sound like an invitation, and the three of them go inside the trailer.

It's smaller than Sean remembers. For the couple of months he and Daniel lived here, things were cramped—Sean had to crawl over Daniel if he needed to piss in the middle of the night—but it was a palace compared to the tent they had slept in before that.

"Hey, do you mind if I use your bathroom?" Sean asks as his mom opens the refrigerator.

She hands two bottles of water to Daniel, who holds them without a word. "It is down the hall," Mom says, even though Sean is already walking towards it.

Sean does his business and washes his hands in front of the mirror where he mastered cleaning out his eye, the mirror that first showed him how beat-to-shit his face was after Lisbeth's church. And it's weird how a place that comforted him so much reminds him of so much pain.

He knows he left Mom and Daniel with a gulf of awkwardness, and, sure enough, the two of them stand in the kitchen, studying the floor. Sean is working out how to do the heavy lifting in their conversation, but as he passes the bed Mom gave up to him and Daniel, he pauses. Except for the hospital, it was the first real bed Sean had slept in since staying with Claire and Stephen in Beaver Creek, almost six months before. No wonder he always felt tired in his bones; they probably legit hurt from sleeping on dirt and concrete.

It's just thin, metal walls, but the trailer _feels_ safe. It's why he fucked up and stayed here longer than he should have.

If they had not stayed here for two months—hell, if they had only left a _day_ sooner, then the cops never would have caught them at the border. They could have escaped to Mexico.

Then again, if that happened, Daniel would have grown up as a fugitive in a country where he doesn't speak the language.

But Sean would have been free.

Those nights in jail, he would replay his life, make different choices. Write himself a different ending. So he has thought this before, but he realizes it now: what he should have done was left Daniel with Claire and Stephen. Just gotten up in the middle of the night without saying goodbye, drew all of the heat from the police, and crossed the border by himself. It would have given Daniel a normal life. Daniel never would have gotten shot or brainwashed. And, sure, Sean wouldn't have his brother, but maybe that would have been better for everyone.

_I should have been more like Mom and less like Dad_, he thinks, staring at the bed, remembering how it was too hot to lie so close to his brother, but Daniel's head on his shoulder always helped him fall asleep at night.

Daniel elbows Sean in the side and hands him one of the bottles of water. "Karen doesn't have any pictures of us up," he says quietly.

"Well, bro, she left us," Sean says. "Those pictures would probably be hard to look at."

"I guess I wanted a sign that she missed us," Daniel says, scratching the cap of his water bottle. "If I left my family behind, I would think about them every day."

"I would too," Sean sighs. "I could never be truly happy if I made that choice."

# # #

An awning hangs off the side of the trailer, and some boards on the ground comprise a makeshift patio. There are a table and some chairs, and Sean, his little brother, and their estranged mother sit down; the shade is not really needed since the sky overhead is a dull gray. The stickiness in the air feels wrong for the middle of the desert.

The cold bottle of water sweats against Sean's hand. Sean watches his mom pull out a pack of cigarettes, and she offers one to him. "No thanks," he says. "I quit last year."

She shrugs and offers one to Daniel.

"Uh, he's sixteen and doesn't smoke," Sean says.

"I know how old he is," Mom says.

"And I can speak for myself," Daniel adds. "You can't just make decisions for me."

"Okay, you're right," Sean says, holding up his palms. "Do you want a cigarette, little bro?"

For a moment, Daniel looks like he will take one, just to spite him. But instead shakes his head.

"Happy belated birthday, by the way," Mom says, lighting a cigarette for herself.

"Thanks. You're only a few years late," Daniel says.

Sean shoots his brother a glare. And Daniel shoots one back.

_What the hell, dude? What is with the attitude? _But then, meeting Mom is way different this time. Last time, Daniel was a little kid, happy to have his mom. He wasn't an angsty teenager who could process just what Mom's leaving meant. Sean was _furious_ with her when he was sixteen. Hated her more than he hated anything. But in the other life, Mom stepped up. She found them. The first time Daniel met her, she was trying to save him. Here, they stumbled back into her life, and she is clearly not ready for it.

The conversation crawls along like a snail over a trail of salt. Mom goes through all of that small talk bullshit you go through when you have no idea what to say to somebody. She says he and Daniel have grown up nicely. Asks Daniel how school is going. She seems impressed that Sean is graduating art school and has a job lined up with Nickelodeon and even mentions that he is succeeding where she didn't with her poetry. Sean gets her talking about art for a bit, and it almost feels like a natural conversation.

Daniel just sits there, arms crossed, mostly staring at his sneakers, one of which has come untied.

"So you both grew up to be handsome like your father. Do you boys have significant others?" Mom asks.

"Nope," Daniel says.

"I _might_ have a boyfriend," Sean says. "There's this guy I spend time with at school, and he just told me he loves me."

"Toby said he loves you?" Daniel asks, looking up from his shoes.

"Yeah, dude! It was just this morning. I told him _te amo_ last night, and he sent me this long text about how we need to talk, but I feel good about it. I think we might be for-real dating."

"You didn't tell me," Daniel says, and he goes back to staring at his feet.

"Well, that's nice," Mom says. "I'm glad you found someone. But you're young. Don't just settle down with the first person who seems good enough."

"Is that what happened with you and Dad?" Daniel says, and his voice is cold like a metal pipe against someone's knee. "Was Dad just some guy who 'seemed good enough?'"

"Dude, Daniel, chill out," Sean says.

"I loved your father, and he was the best person I ever knew." Mom drags on her cigarette and blows a cloud of smoke that billows above her head before the breeze takes it away. "Look, you tracked me down, came all the way here to grill your bitch mother who left in the middle of the night. So let's stop beating around the bush and get to it."

"Well, hold on," Sean says. "I know Daniel has a lot of questions that he deserves answers to, but we didn't come here to 'grill' you or to make you feel anything about leaving. We just wanted to find you again. To know that you are okay. You're not our 'bitch mother who left'. You're our mother we want to reconnect with."

"Speak for yourself, Sean," Daniel says.

"Dude, we're guests," Sean says. "We showed up at Mom's home after sixteen years uninvited and unannounced. Don't be a rude dick, okay, Daniel?"

"Well, maybe you should have given Karen a heads up, since the two of you are so buddy-buddy, Sean," Daniel snaps.

Sean's teeth dig into his lip. He gets that he said things just to get a rise out of Mom when they first talked in Haven Point, but this is embarrassing. Mom doesn't deserve this. Daniel is acting like a petulant child.

He's about to scold Daniel when Mom says, "Sean, I appreciate that you're trying to keep the peace like your father would, but Daniel is right to be angry with me. Even to hate me. So, Daniel, go ahead and ask your questions. I will answer them the best I can."

"Well, at least _someone_ will answer my questions," Daniel mutters. "Okay, let's jump to it—why did you leave?"

And Mom tells a story Sean has heard before, that she tried to fit what society expected of her, and it didn't work no matter how much effort she put into it. And even though Mom hits the same beats as when she was smoking a cigarette outside the motel near Haven Point, this time the notes ring differently. Before, Sean heard a woman trying to justify the shitty thing she did to him. This time, he hears a woman who tried to put others' wants first—her parents, her husband, society, her kids—and it did not work out. She was suffocating, and it would have killed her if she did not finally make a decision for herself.

It was like she was rotting in a cage, with no future in front of her.

She was the kind of trapped that that is so miserable, so goddamn sad, the kind of hopelessness that might make you carve your wrists open with a shiv you made from a toothbrush.

Even if deep down you know that will hurt the people you love the most.

"So, what, you were in a 'bad place'?" Daniel says. "That is such bullshit. You made all of those choices. Nobody made you get married or have kids. You ended up where you were because of the choices _you_ made."

"Making your own choices doesn't mean you don't fool yourself, Daniel," Mom says. "I had just given birth to you, your brother was growing up, and your father's garage was starting to take off, and I felt like my own life was slipping away. Like I was an empty shell. Leaving you and your brother was _the_ hardest decision I ever made. But it was one that I had to make. For all of us."

"Nope. Don't do that shit." Suddenly Daniel's eyes meet Sean's, and it's like they burrow down Sean's throat. "Don't do something shitty and say it was 'for me.' It was a selfish, shitty decision you made for your selfish, shitty self."

"Bro, come on," Sean says weakly. "You're not even trying to understand."

"Fuck off with your bullshit, Sean," Daniel says and turns back to Mom. "And fuck you, Karen. All this time, I thought there would be a reason. Maybe even a bad one. But there isn't. You just 'got tired' of being a mom and a wife. Your life 'wasn't good enough,' so you traded it for this shithole out in the desert. You bailed on my dad, the so-called 'best person' you've ever known. You hurt my dad, Karen. You bailed on Claire and Stephen, who welcomed us into their house and were _so happy_ just to see us. And you abandoned my brother." Suddenly, Daniel turns back to Sean. "I don't know what the hell is going on with you, bro, but I know that this woman left a giant hole in your heart. Growing up, you had so much anger and hurt over her, and now you're trying to act like it's okay, but there is no way that hole has gone away. So, Karen, I'm pissed off that you hurt my dumbass older brother too." Daniel takes a breath. "So, no bullshit—am I the reason you left?"

"_Enano_," Sean says, "it wasn't about you."

"Stay out of this, Sean," Daniel says. "Was I the reason you left, Karen? You and Dad and Sean had a decent little life for seven years, but the moment little Daniel comes along, it all becomes too much. So was it me?"

"No," Mom says. "But Esteban thought you might be enough to fill the hole in my heart. And I went along with it, even though deep down I knew you couldn't because it wasn't that type of hole. I loved you as much as I could."

"Cool. That's cool," Daniel says, tears welling up in his eyes. "You loved me as much as you could, but you couldn't love me enough to stay. I guess that's the most someone could love me, huh? That's awesome. This is so fucking awesome." He knocks the chair over as he stands up. Then he stumbles behind the trailer, walks off into the desert.

Sean calls after him. But Daniel doesn't stop.

"This has really gone to shit," Sean mutters as he sits back down.

"What about you, Sean?" Mom says, lighting a second cigarette. "You think I'm a real bitch too?"

Sean shakes his head. "Look, I spent a long time being angry at you. You left, and it hurt so bad. I think you know you hurt us, but I don't think you really _understand_ it. Daniel is right about there being a hole in me, and I had nothing to fill it with except hate, and it's taken me a long, long time to pick all that hate out. I kind of think the hole will always be there, too." He bites his lip. "But at the same time, I really think I understand you, Mom. I truly do. I think you made the right choice by leaving."

"There is no way that you could be my kid and be that sympathetic and understanding," Mom says with a laugh.

"Well, I think you could have sent a birthday card or two. Or maybe reached out, especially once I graduated. Or sent a child-support check or something. Those first few years, I'm pretty sure we ate hotdogs on sandwich bread for every meal. That kind of sucked." He smiles sadly. "But, overall, I think you made the right call doing what was right for you. You know, before we came on this trip, I asked Dad what he wanted me to tell you. And it's the same thing I would have said myself. He hopes you found what you were looking for. And that you are truly happy. And that you could be a part of our lives, if you wanted to."

"That's your father," Mom says. "The sweetest, kindest, best person I've ever met."

"Yeah," Sean says. "He's the best person I ever met too." He scratches at his tattoo of the lonely boy, over the spot where he carved open his arm in the other life.

"Are you okay?" Mom asks. "You're fidgeting like you did when you were upset as a little boy."

"Fine. I'm fine." Sean shakes his head. "Actually, I'm not fine. I'm pretty far from fine. I had a bunch of crazy shit happen to me, and I am not dealing with it well. And I can't tell Daniel because, well, he's my little brother and I have to be strong for him even if he hates me. And I can't tell Dad because . . . because . . . "

"Because Esteban Diaz is the best man you'll ever know, and you don't want him to be disappointed in you?" Mom offers.

Sean nods.

"I know that feeling. But Karen Reynolds is probably the biggest fuckup you'll ever know. She is not going to judge you."

"I didn't come here to dump my problems on you."

"I bailed on being your mom for most of your life. Helping you sort through your shit is probably the least I can do."

Sean takes a breath. "There's too much of it. And most of it will sound crazy. But, like, I love Daniel, right? He's my little brother. My favorite little dude. And I would do anything for him. And I think that's maybe a problem. I love him so much that I would fuck up my life for him. I always had to look out for him when we were growing up, and I ended up making some choices that put him first . . . but they were choices that put me last. I ended up having, like, no life. No future. So then I changed some things, but the consequence was that Daniel and I weren't close anymore. And I missed him so goddamn much that it was like having my heart ripped from my chest. So I started making an effort to connect with him again. Like, we came on this road trip. But there is a bunch of shit going on in my head that I thought I was over, but I'm clearly not over, and there are people I care about who are getting hurt and I don't get why trying to do right by my brother is hurting them. But I also don't know how to put myself first either. I don't know if any of this is making any sense. It's all messed up and fucked up and I am so confused and broken and there's never a _right_ thing to do . . . and . . . "

His words are swallowed by a sob. He doubles over, almost hitting his forehead on the table as he cries. He watches as a string of snot dangles from his nose and feels gross as he sucks it back in, and he wishes his mom would hug him or put a hand on his, and in the other life, she would, but here she isn't good at being Mom yet and that sucks that just fucking sucks.

"I'm sorry," Mom says. "That sounds like a lot."

"It is," Sean says. "It's too much."

"You're a strong kid. And a smart one."

"I appreciate that, but there's no way you can know that."

"I do. You were already that when you were seven. And Esteban Diaz raised you. If you are even a fraction of the man he is, then you are smart enough and strong enough to handle anything life throws at you."

"I'm pretty tired of life throwing things at me, though."

"I know I'm a selfish bitch who bailed on her family," Mom says, "but in life, you're only really responsible for yourself, you know? It sounds like you are always thinking about how your choices affect others, not how they are going to affect you. And if you are always looking out for somebody else, then who is looking out for you, Sean? You know Daniel is your _brother_, right? Maybe try treating him like that, like he's a person who can look out for himself, like he's someone who can look out for _you_ sometimes, instead of only thinking of him as a responsibility. You might realize that a lot of that weight on your shoulders, you don't actually have to carry."

"Heh," Sean smiles as he wipes at his eyes. "Dad said something similar back in Seattle. He said carrying all that weight is how you get your back broken."

"You know, my leaving was actually a mutual decision between me and your father. I had been unhappy for . . . long enough that I couldn't remember what 'happy' felt like. And for the longest time, I thought I was protecting your dad—and you, then later your brother—by keeping all of that misery to myself. But when I finally told Esteban . . . he knew. It turned out that my unhappiness, I wasn't really keeping it to myself because it was making him unhappy, too." The legs of Mom's chair scrape across the wooden deck as she slides closer. She sets her hand uneasily on Sean's shoulder. "You're not being selfish if you admit you need help. And it isn't noble to suffer. I get that you think you're suffering out of love, but you're not really able _to_ love if your heart is consumed by misery."

Sean reaches across his chest and sets his hand on top of his mother's. Then he tilts his head, resting it on the pillow of their fingers. After a while, he says, "I know it isn't what you wanted for yourself, Karen, but you're actually not terrible at this 'mom' thing."

# # #

Sean finds Daniel almost half a mile behind the trailer, sitting on the ground, drawing a circle in the dirt with a rock.

"You want to talk, _enano_?" Sean asks.

"Not even a little," Daniel says, standing up and brushing dust off his pants.

"It's okay to be angry. I held that anger for a long time. Too long."

"I know. And now you and Karen are totally cool with each other."

"I found a way to make peace with her," Sean says.

"No, you realized that you _are_ her."

"What?"

"You always leave, Sean. You run away when things get hard or inconvenient. This road trip has had some good moments with us, but it's easy for you to hang out when it's the Vegas strip or camping. I feel like when you get back to Savannah, it will be like none of this ever happened. You'll just hit _delete_ on me again."

"Bro, I have texted you, like, every day for _months_. You really think I'm just going to abandon you next week?"

Daniel shrugs. "You fucked off to college and just, like, quit being a part of things. It sucked for me, but I was used to you not being around. You know, Lyla still messages me on social media around my birthday, even after you just stopped being friends with her. But worse, you stopped talking to our dad. Our _dad_, Sean. You would go a month without even texting him. Or calling. But then you started missing holidays, too. You have no idea how hurt he was when you still skipped Thanksgiving after you weren't spending it with your girlfriend's family anymore."

"I'm just busy," Sean says weakly. "Art school is overwhelming. I have anxiety. Me being in over my head isn't the same as not caring or running away."

"You _always_ have excuses," Daniel says, rolling his eyes. "Over Christmas, you asked me if I remembered you tackling me in the yard around Halloween when I was nine. I don't remember that because it's just one of, like, a hundred shitty ways you showed you didn't care about me growing up. I do remember that nine was about the age that I realized you didn't want anything to do with me. And, on one hand, I get it. You were in high school. You wanted to be with your friends and didn't want to hang out with your dorky little brother. But it fucking sucks to have the dude you look up to always act like you're nothing but a pain in his ass, like he wants nothing to do with you. You'd think someone who had his mom bail on him would get what that feels like. And drawing me a picture of some wolves at Christmas isn't going to fix that."

"Dude, come on, I _do_ get how shitty that was. And I am sorry. I am so, so sorry that I ever made you feel like you were a pain in my ass. I mean, yeah, you kind of are a pain in the ass sometimes, but one that I love because you're my favorite person."

"Oh my god, you are so full of shit." Daniel smirks, shaking his head. "You are such a liar and a con-artist that I can't tell if you even realize how full of shit you are. Outside of the past few days, there is _nothing_ in our relationship that says you give a shit about me, let alone that I am your 'favorite person.' And on this trip, you have been sketchy as hell. There's the stealing. And the threatening the guy. But there's also the lying. You said that you had met our mom before today, but she acted like she hadn't seen you since you were eight. Has anything you've told me been true? Is there even a Toby? Are you even bisexual or is that something you made up so I would come out to you to, I dunno, make you feel better about yourself?"

"Daniel, bro," Sean pleads, "I know I haven't had good explanations for things. I know I've been a sketchy dude. But, _enano_, I care about you so much and I would do anything for you. There are so many ways that I would put you first and—"

"Then stop fucking lying! Stop with the bullshit! Are you really this deluded? It's like you believe that stupid fucking story you're writing in your sketchbook where I have superpowers."

Sean blinks. He swallows the knot in his throat. "You . . . you read my sketchbook?"

"Yeah, I read a few pages of it. I know you're writing a story where our dad is dead, and you're just the most awesome, kindest, best, most inhumanly selfless brother who looks out for me. But that person does not exist, Sean. He is not real. Because my dumbass brother here in the real world is a flakey, unreliable, selfish, self-centered asshat who could _never_ put someone else before himself. He will lie. And steal. For no reason at all. And when he gets called on it, he tries to blame me because he's 'doing it for me.' My brother clearly fucked up so bad that he can't face the consequences because he's the type of person that, if he thought it would get him what he wanted, he would turn his back on the people he's supposed to care about. Like a criminal would. That's clearly what's going on, Sean. You're either a fucking criminal . . . or no better than one."

Each of Daniel's words hits Sean like a boot in the face.

Like a punch in the desert that breaks his ribs.

Like a shard of glass that pierces his eye and takes his sight.

Like a pair of handcuffs that clamps around his wrists and steals his future.

"You sheltered, entitled little shit," Sean mutters. "You fucking ungrateful, stupid little brat."

"Oh, so now you—"

"No, shut the fuck up, Daniel!" Sean shouts. "I have sacrificed so goddamn much for you. Your whole life, someone has protected you. Dad looked out for you in ways that he never looked out for me. I had to do so much more than should ever be asked from a kid just to keep you safe and out of trouble. I gave up parts of my life just so you could have a comfortable little existence. I'm sorry that I wasn't perfect, but I did my best. So you got a few scrapes growing up? I have bruises and fractures and scars all over my body because _I_ was protecting _you_. You think everything in the sketchbook is delusions and bullshit, but let me tell you this: I was eight goddamn years old, and I woke up one morning, and my fucking mom was gone. She was just _gone_, Daniel. And I didn't get to be sad about it. 'You have to be strong, _mijo_, for your _hermano, mijo_.' That's what Dad said."

_And then . . . then when Dad died, I didn't get to be sad about that either. Because I had to be strong for you._

"I gave up my friends," Sean continues. "I gave up my childhood. Because I had to step up and be your parent because you deserved to be a kid more than I did. And you have the goddamn nerve to tell me that _I_ am selfish? That is fucking hilarious when you are a little leech who has sucked all of the good things out of my life, all of the good things I deserved. You say I'm a liar? You want me to stop lying? Well, here's the fucking truth: my life would be a hundred times better if you had never been born. My life is filled with so much shit that it is drowning me, and it's all because I have to be Daniel Diaz's brother."

Daniel stands there, looking like he has just been kicked in the face. Like he's been punched in the gut. Like he has been beaten to shit by all the bad things that have ever happened to his older brother. He isn't crying. But he runs his arm under his nose.

And Sean feels like someone who would tie up a kid in a gas station.

Like someone who would shoot a child at the border.

Like someone who would exploit a scared little boy for her stupid, shitty church.

Like someone who would beat up a one-eyed teenager in the desert.

Like the lowest, worst, most miserable person in the whole world.

"Dude, Daniel, I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry . . ." Sean reaches for his brother.

"Fuck you. Don't fucking touch me," Daniel says, pulling away. "You know what, Sean? Maybe your life is full of shit for other reasons. Maybe it's shitty because of the choices you made. It's definitely not because you're Daniel Diaz's brother. Because you and me? We might have the same blood, but we are _not_ brothers."

There is a frightening, hateful look in Daniel's eyes.

And around them, the air rumbles.

_Oh shit_, Sean thinks. _Daniel's powers are activating._

But the rocks around them stay on the ground.

The dust doesn't move.

Sean isn't blown backwards.

Because it's only the thunder overhead.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Mom's voice says. She's standing a few yards away, uncomfortable, awkward. "But Stanley just said there's a bad storm coming our way. It knocked down some church the next state over. You boys need to get going now if you're going to reach a motel before it hits."

# # #

The wind is already picking up as Sean and his brother leave Away. They drive towards town, not speaking as the storm shakes the car.


	32. Episode Three: The Wilderness - Fourteen

_July 4, 2017_

_Five years and another lifetime ago._

_Somewhere in Arizona, along the United States-Mexico Border_

Sean Diaz stares at the wall of police cars between him and freedom. The broken handcuff hangs heavy on his wrist. He turns off the engine of his mom's SUV and sets his head on the steering wheel, wincing as his brother asks what they are going to do.

"You know, that day in Seattle," he says slowly, using what feels like the last of his strength to sit up, "the day Dad was shot . . . I think about it every day. And I would give anything to change what happened. But I can't. I'm sorry for my mistakes. I tried my best. I swear."

"Sean . . . " Daniel barely gets the word out. There's no bullshitting this kid anymore. He knows this is the end of the road.

"I'm so proud of you, _enano_," Sean says. "Just like Dad would be. We both learned a lot together, but you can make your own rules now. If we surrender, they will separate us, Daniel. And if that happens, promise me that you will always do the right thing, okay? Don't waste your power. Be smart. Like you already are."

"I don't wanna be separated."

"Whatever happens, always remember that you're Daniel Diaz."

"I promise, Sean."

The FBI agent shouts orders at them. It all sounds like noise.

"So," Daniel asks, "how does the story of the wolf brothers end?"

Sean takes a long time to answer. "I . . . I think their story ends right here . . ."

# # #

_April 14, 2023_

_Now_

_A cheap motel not far from Away, Arizona _

Sean Diaz stares at the wall of the shower, wrestling with how to cross the chasm between him and his brother. The water is turned as hot as it will go and stings his shoulders, but he stands under it long enough that it grows cold. A canon-shot of thunder shakes the tiny motel.

He has really screwed things up. Like Max said he would when she came to him in the prison. Just before he changed the past.

Sean turns off the water but doesn't get out. He rests his forehead on the wall, stands there wet and naked.

_I shouldn't have lost my temper. I shouldn't have said those things to Daniel._ But Sean's little brother pushed and pushed until he lost it. Daniel is only a kid, though. Kids act out. And Daniel just found out that why his mother left him doesn't make the pain worth it, and his older brother kept being dishonest with him even if it was for "good" reasons.

However, Daniel is sixteen. Sixteen was when Sean had to grow-the-fuck up. Daniel doesn't have to be such an infuriating little brat.

_That's not fair_, Sean thinks. _This is why I sacrificed everything twice. So Daniel could be a normal sixteen-year-old. And normal sixteen-year-olds are shitheads, like I was before dad died._

Shivering, Sean finally wraps a towel around himself. The bathroom is poorly ventilated, so the mirror is steamed as he steps onto the cold, tile floor. A frowny face has appeared on the glass; Daniel showered first and must have drawn it. Sean pulls on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt and picks up his cell phone.

While Daniel was in the bathroom, Sean texted Max Caulfield. It turns out, David _is_ Chloe's stepdad. Or was. Max seemed to think it was just a weird coincidence, said David was a real douche, didn't want to hear about how he is a good dude now. Sean can't shake that there must be some meaning to him, though. Like David is a sign that people _can_ change, that they can take the shitty things they've done and the shitty things that happen to them and become better.

Sean's past doesn't make him better, though. His past only seems to make him worse.

Max was cool, didn't chastise him for choosing to go on this road trip with his brother instead of accepting the _C-_minus life. The last thing she sent to him was: _Just be careful, Sean Diaz. _

But he's tired of being careful. Enough of the fog has faded from the mirror, that it shows part of his face, but only half of it; his left eye is still covered with the steam. His face isn't as sallow as it was in prison, but he can still see that same, broken boy behind his one visible eye. "What do you want, Sean?" he asks the boy in the mirror.

"I want Toby," he says. "And for my job at Nickelodeon to work out. Because I like Toby. And I have worked hard at school."

"I want to not be in jail," he says. "And to not be a criminal. Because I try so, so hard to do the right thing."

"I want my dad," he says. "And my little brother. Also my mom. Because I love them. I don't think it's too much to want my family."

Then he bends over, sets his forehead on the cool sink. He knows this last thing is the big one, the one the universe could punish him for. When he rises again, the fog has cleared. He can see both of his eyes. "But right now, I just want someone to believe me. I want someone to help me carry all of this weight that is breaking my back. I want this misery out of my heart before it poisons everyone."

Just before he opens the bathroom door, he thinks: _This action will have consequences._

# # #

Sean's little brother lies on his back on one of the beds. He's wearing a Captain America t-shirt and a pair of boxers. His hair is still damp and kind of stuck to his forehead. His earbuds are in, and he holds the Power Bear action figure from the campsite, slowly moving its arms and legs, like he is trying to figure out how it works.

Sean's bed creaks as he sits down, folding his hands, kind of like his father does when they are about to have a 'difficult' conversation. "Hey, Daniel, can we talk?"

Daniel pulls out one of his ear buds.

"I, uh, shouldn't have said those things to you," Sean says. "Back at Mom's . . . back at Karen's."

"It's whatever," Daniel says. "I was pissed. I was trying to piss you off. I shouldn't have said what I did either."

"Well, I didn't mean what I said," Sean says, "about how my life would be better if you hadn't been born."

Daniel's chest rises then falls. He closes his eyes. "Yes, you did."

Sean stares at his bare toes. The carpet is too thin for him to dig them into it. "Look, I'll be honest," he says. "Sometimes . . . sometimes I do think my life _would_ be easier if I weren't your brother. But I know for a fact it wouldn't be _better_. Because you're my favorite person, _enano_. I know you don't believe that. But I need you to trust that I do."

Daniel sits up, pushes his hand through his wet hair, and it turns into a shitty fauxhawk. He takes out the other earbud. "How can you say that, Sean? I'm nobody's favorite person. All my friends bailed on me. And you and me, we have never been close. Like, ever."

"We were," Sean says, tracing the road walked by the boy tattooed on his arm. "In another time. In another life. We were close enough that we took on the entire world. Together." Sean stands up, walks over to where his backpack rests against the wall. He pulls out _the_ sketchbook, the one with everything from the other life. He hands it to Daniel. "Everything in that sketchbook is true. Well, except for the stuff about, like, zombies or whatever. But Dad getting shot by a police officer. Us going on the run. You having superpowers. All of that is true."

"Sean, come on, man."

"I know it sounds crazy. But it's how I knew Claire and Stephen would be happy to see us, even ask us to stay the night. Because they welcomed us when it was hard, when we were on the run. It's how I knew where to find Mom. Because she found us five years ago. It's why those guys jumped me in the desert even though I've 'never been to Nevada.' I fell asleep on their land in a car that I stole to get back to you. It's why I know how to steal. It's why I do shady-ass shit. Because for a long time, doing that shady shit was how we survived."

The pages of the sketchbook rustle as Daniel flips through them, not really lingering on any of them long enough to truly see them. Daniel must think this is total bullshit. Sean expects another fight when Daniel looks up, but instead, Daniel's eyes just appear worried. "Sean, you have to know none of this happened, right? Our Dad isn't dead. I think we would have noticed if you just left for the border when you were sixteen."

"None of this happened. You're right," Sean says. "Because you're not the only one with a superpower. I can travel through time, travel through my sketches. I can change the past."

"Dude, bro. _Hermano_," Daniel says, and his palm rubs his forehead so hard it reddens the skin. "I'm not making a joke here . . . but did Andrew, like, touch you or something? He was always kind of creepy, and I heard that sometimes when kids are abused, they have these breaks from reality and create, like, alternate worlds in their heads, and—"

"I'm not making it up," Sean says. "I'll prove it." He grabs a pencil and a marker from his bag. He takes the sketchbook from Daniel and turns to one of the few remaining blank pages in the back. "Okay, I'm going to draw this room, draw this moment right now. While I am doing that, think of something you have never told me. Something I would have no way of knowing. Then, once I'm done with the sketch, tell me the secret. I will travel through time, tell it to you, and it will be like I read your mind. Except I won't read your mind. You just will have told me. In the future. Does . . . does this make sense?"

The room flashes from the lightning outside. Then thunder booms.

"I don't know, man," Daniel says. He picks up his phone "I think we should—I think we should call Dad. I think you should tell him all this stuff you just told me. Then we can get you help or whatever you need. . ."

"Please, Daniel, don't call Dad," Sean says, and he reaches for the cell phone. He stops himself as Daniel pulls away. The frightened, worried look on Daniel's face stings. "At least, don't tell Dad just yet, okay? Just . . . humor me. Let me try this. And if it doesn't work, then you . . . then you can tell Dad I'm crazy, okay? You can have me committed or whatever, alright?"

Sean watches as his brother unlocks the phone screen. But Daniel doesn't press anything in his contacts. Instead, he sets the phone back on the bed. The kid sighs. "Okay, Sean. I guess let's try this."

# # #

Daniel rubs the bottom of his foot with his thumb, but Sean is too busy sketching to tell him touching his feet is gross. Daniel's stomach feels sick. As much as Sean pisses him off, Sean is still his brother. Daniel cares about him, wants him to be okay. And before, he thought Sean was full of shit, a liar who completely committed to his falsehoods to deceive others. But now, Daniel watches his brother's pen scratch against the page of the sketchbook, and he sees a guy who is broken so badly he does not know what's real anymore.

"I'm done," Sean says, and he turns the image he's drawn in the sketchbook towards Daniel. Sure enough, it's the room.

Daniel sees himself in the image, his phone and the Power Bear action figure beside him on the bed. Sean even captured him playing with his foot but didn't say anything. "It looks good, bro."

"Thanks," Sean says, turning the sketchbook back towards himself. "So do you have something you can tell me? Something I wouldn't know?"

"Yeah," Daniel says, pulling his legs under him, crisscross applesauce. "I do."

"Well, save it," Sean says, looking up from the sketchbook. "Because we have already done this five times."

"What?" Daniel says.

"I have already traveled back to this moment five times. The first time," Sean says calmly, closing the sketchbook over his lap, "you told me that your first kiss was with Min Reilly. You were in seventh grade."

Okay, sure, this is exactly the thing Daniel was about to say. But Sean probably guessed. A really lucky guess. It was in Daniel's bedroom while they were working on a project about William Henry Harrison for Mrs. Jackson. "I probably mentioned it at some point," Daniel says. "And you just remembered. Or wrote it down in one of your journals. You write everything down in your journals."

"The second time," Sean continues, "you told me that the first time you smoked weed was when you were eleven. You got it from my room. It gave you a headache, and you have never smoked it again."

"You probably noticed it was missing!" Daniel says.

Sean smirks. "Yeah, I was _super_ careful with my weed as a kid, kept a close eye on it, which is why Dad was able to find my stash."

"Whatever." Daniel crosses his arms. "Lots of kids smoke in middle school. My older brother was a stoner. Of course I was going to try it at some point."

"The third time," Sean continues, "you tried to tell me that you still keep Mr. Bunny Bunny under your bed, and if you can't sleep, you cuddle with him. But I already knew that. So, instead, you told me that you actually _like_ Dad's tamales. I thought we just ate them to be nice because making them reminds him of Mexico."

"Okay, _obviously_ they are bad _tamales_, but that doesn't mean that they are bad _food_. You just have to think of them as damp burritos."

Sean cringes. "That is the third time you've said that, and it just gets grosser every time. The fourth time we did this, you told me that you asked Claire back in Beaver Creek if you were the reason Mom left. And Claire made you say you didn't ruin anything. She told you Mom left because Karen Reynolds is a deeply flawed person." Sean taps his sketchbook with a knuckle, as another round of thunder rumbles outside. "Claire is right about that. I mean, it's more complicated, but that's the gist of it. Mom couldn't love you enough to stay, but she couldn't love me enough to stay either. That's not a fault with either of us. It's not really a fault with her, but it's . . . staying is something she couldn't do."

"I think it's one hell of a fault with her," Daniel says, crossing his arms. "I don't get how you can accept her."

"I've had five years. You've only had a few hours." Sean smiles. But it fades when he asks, "Do you want to know the last thing you told me?"

"I'm not sure what it would be," Daniel says. "I feel like I'm running out of things you couldn't guess."

"You said that last time," Sean says. "And you got a little flustered and blurted that the black eye you had back in December . . . your 'friend' Noah gave it to you. You went to his house to talk to him. And he punched you in the face."

Suddenly, Daniel feels cold, like the blood has fallen out of his body. Hearing Sean say this out loud is like being hit again. It wasn't even Daniel's face that hurt; it was his heart. It hurt more that his best friend did it than the actually being punched.

"Did I, uh, tell you what I wanted to talk to him about?" Daniel asks, interlocking his fingers between his toes.

"No, you didn't," Sean says. "But you can now. If you want to."

"I don't want to," Daniel says, and his voice cracks. A sniffle betrays him. He crosses his arms, puffs out his chest. Tries to look tough to make up for the stupid feelings he's having about this.

The bed shifts as Sean sits down beside him. He feels his brother reach out for him, but Daniel pulls away. He does not want to be touched right now.

"You know," Sean says, "before we left, Dad talked to me about how the things going on with me, I might feel better if I shared them with you. And Mom said something similar. She said this thing about how keeping pain inside yourself doesn't make anything better. It just poisons you, and then it can poison the people around you. Look, I know you haven't felt good about whatever this is with Noah. And talking about it might help. And I'll listen. And I promise, what I am about to tell you is more fucked up than anything you could tell me. I am a much bigger fuckup than you."

"Yeah, the honor-roll student with a sort-of boyfriend who is about to work at Nickelodeon is totally a fuckup," Daniel says, trying to smile. It feels hard. Everything has felt hard with this stupid shit with Noah taking up so much space in his head for months. "You promise not to tell anyone?"

"I promise, Daniel," Sean says.

He takes a breath. Then closes his eyes. Something about not looking at Sean makes this seem easier. "So . . . I was spending the night at Noah's house. Like I always did a couple of times a month. And we were just messing around on his laptop, and somehow we ended up on a porn site." Daniel winces. "And so we started watching stuff. It was late. No one else was up. And Noah suggested we 'take care of ourselves.'" Daniel sets his head in his hand. This is so cringey to say out loud. "And so we did. But then we kind of started touching each other. And everything seemed fine. Noah was kind of into it. I thought it was awkward but kinda fun? I don't know. But when we finished . . . I kissed him. And he got . . . really weird. He didn't talk to me the rest of the night. I slept on his couch instead of in his room like usual, and I left, like, first thing in the morning. Even before his parents were up." Daniel sighs. "And I kept trying to talk to him about it, to tell him it didn't have to mean anything. But he wouldn't even talk to me. So it's just confusing and frustrating and awful. And when I finally went to his house after him ignoring me at school, he . . . punched me in the face. Told me to leave him alone. That's the last thing he said to me."

"I'm sorry, bro. That really sucks."

"I'm okay with being into guys or bisexual," Daniel says. "But the thing is, I don't even _like_ Noah like that. I don't think he's cute or anything. He's just my friend. So I don't know why I kissed him or even why we did stuff in the first place. It just . . . happened. And it makes me feel like I'm a creep, like I have no self control." Daniel chews on his lip, and he stares down at his bare feet. They are the same size as Sean's, but they seem so much smaller. "It makes me feel like there's something _wrong_ with me. Which maybe there is. It makes sense. It's why I ruined my most important friendship. It's why my mom couldn't love me. And it's why my brother didn't want anything to do with me."

"Hey, we've already been over this—Mom didn't leave because of you. She left because of herself. And your brother . . . I was a shithead who, if I had been more mature, I would have spent more time with you and realized you were a pretty cool little kid. And I would have told you that, like, so much that you would have turned into an overconfident little shit."

Daniel laughs, even as his eyes feel hot and wet.

"And as for Noah," Sean says, "look, dude, I think you should be bummed out that your friend won't talk to you. And that it sounds like he isn't your friend anymore. That for-real sucks."

"It does," Daniel sighs.

"But the other stuff . . . you're not a freak for kissing him or fooling around with him. Stuff like that happens. Was this your first time doing something like this with another person?"

Daniel nods. "It's the closest thing I've ever done to sex with someone, if that's what you mean, yeah."

"I think everyone's first sexual experience is awkward. And messy. And confusing. I know both of mine were."

"Both?"

"Because of the time travel thing, I have two. And they are both embarrassing as hell. In this life, it was with Jenn, and I kept freaking out about my bed making noise because you were home and might hear us. So we did it on the floor on a pile of blankets, like, _right_ next to a pile of my dirty laundry. Then you totally almost walked in on us. God, I could have murdered you."

Daniel chuckles. "I remember that. You actually threw your jeans at me, which made it pretty obvious you didn't have them on." He watches Sean blush, and there's something comforting about his brother being embarrassed.

"In the other life," Sean says, "there was this cool girl who went by Cassidy. I met her in Beaver Creek, then again when we were hopping trains. She and I did it in a tent in the middle of a redwood forest in California, and I was . . . I was really, really bad. You know what's awesome? Handing someone your v-card then spending more time apologizing than actually having sex. She was . . . understanding."

Daniel almost rolls his eyes at "in the other life." He isn't sure why Sean made up this story, but there's a note in his voice that sounds like honesty. It can't be true, but Sean thinks it's truth.

Sean's been quiet for a few seconds. When Daniel looks up, Sean's face is pale and vacant, staring through the wall across from them. He doesn't move until Daniel says, "Sean?"

"Sorry, bro, I was just . . . thinking about Cassidy and our friend Finn. You . . . really liked Finn."

Back in the car, on the way out of Beaver Creek, Daniel mentioned the thing that Stephen said about some hippies getting hit by a train. Was Sean thinking of these people he made up when he got weird and quiet?

Sean shakes his head. "Anyway, I think most people's first time doesn't go like they plan. And your embarrassing, awkward, messy sexual experience? It's fine. It's normal. It happens. Don't beat yourself up about it. It's okay, _enano_."

"It still sucks about Noah," Daniel says. "I hate that I can't . . . it's like playing a videogame, and you just can't beat the very last boss. I wish he would just talk to me, even if he said he never wanted to see me again. It's the not talking that's the worst, even more than the black eye."

Sean sighs. "He probably doesn't even know why he stopped talking to you. He probably got uncomfortable, and now things have gotten so messy, it seems even harder to talk about it. I kind of did that to Sarah, the girl I was dating before Thanksgiving. I ran away because avoiding a breakup seemed easier. It was shitty. I was shitty to her, and Noah is being shitty to you."

"You're not going to stab him with a broken bottle, are you?"

Sean laughs. "Not unless you ask me to."

"I can't believe you got me to talk about this," Daniel says. "But you were right . . . talking about it, I do feel a little better. Dude, can I be honest with you? I get really pissed at you, and it isn't because you're a bad brother. It's because you're actually a pretty good brother, when you try. I'm happy for you, that you worked really hard and have friends and went to art school and are making your dreams come true. It just sucks that you were usually too busy for anything else. I know you are trying now."

"I had to do some growing up," Sean says. "And it took me a little longer to do that here."

"It's cool. You were a kid, right?" Daniel says. "Dad always says part of growing up is that kids are allowed to make some pretty big mistakes."

"Yeah. They are," Sean says, and Daniel lets his brother rest a hand on the back of his neck. "They're not supposed to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders."

# # #

Daniel turns the pages of Sean's sketchbook, this time pouring over each page. When he was a kid, he would have flipped over Sean handing him a sketchbook, but now he studies it like a detective, trying to piece together this alternate reality his brother has constructed. And why.

On the opposite bed, Sean sits, scratching at the tattoo on his forearm, curling his toes until they disappear against the carpet. "I, uh, have no idea how to start," he says. "This is hard to talk about."

The page Daniel turns whispers against his finger tips, and it's the image he saw at Christmas of him as a kid, energy swirling around him. "Most of Dad's stories start with 'once upon a time,'" Daniel says. "I guess you could try that."

Sean makes a noise that's half-scoff, half-laugh. It's a corny suggestion, but he rubs his bony knees, and his chest inflates with a deep breath. "Well, okay . . . once—once upon a time, in the wild city of Seattle, I guess, there were two brothers—Sean and Daniel. They lived with their papa and had a good life until . . . until a cop's bullet took their dad away."

Sean stumbles getting started, but once he is talking, he drops the framing of it as a story. He tells it as something that happened to him. And it is pretty wild. Dad getting shot. Daniel killing the cop with super powers. Them going on the run. Daniel isn't sure how to react to most of it, especially when Sean looks at him, expecting him to feel something about Claire and Stephen's neighbor Chris.

Apparently this dead kid was Daniel's best friend, but Daniel has never met him. How is he supposed to react to the death of someone he has never met?

Sean continues as Daniel follows along in the sketchbook like a child being read to at bedtime. Occasionally, Sean's voice cracks. Other times, it comes to a dead stop like he has hit a wall. Sean sniffles. Rubs his eyes. But he manages to keep it together and finishes with how he went to jail and learned he could travel through his sketches. "And so I went back to the day in Seattle, the day Dad was shot. Because, even years later, I thought about it every day. And I changed it, so none of that bad stuff ever happened."

Daniel closes the sketchbook and sets it down next to the Power Bear figure and cell phone beside him on the bed. "You still get panic attacks, though. You have nightmares and cry in your sleep."

Sean drags a hand over his eye, the one that he said got shredded by glass. "All of that stuff still happened to me. It still hurts. I'm . . . broken, I guess. Maybe forever." He raises his head; his eyes meet Daniel's.

Daniel has never seen his brother look so small. Or scared. So quietly desperate, like a child who has lost his parents, who does not know how to get home, who has no idea how to ask for help.

"You didn't really say much during all of that," Sean says. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking you should stand up," Daniel says. At first, Sean looks confused. But finally he stands, and Daniel steps over to him and wraps his arms as tightly as he can around his big brother. At first, Sean is still, like a wooden board. Then, Daniel feels all of Sean's weight against him. His brother's nose presses against his neck, and Sean's breath is hot and wet. Silent sobs held in for far, far too long shake Sean's body.

So Daniel hugs Sean tighter, feels ribs against his biceps. Keeps hugging and holding Sean up with all of his strength. "I got you, bro," Daniel whispers. "You're okay, Sean."

When Sean finally pulls away, he wipes at his eyes. Daniel gives his brother's shoulder a squeeze. He has to be careful with this next part. Daniel thought Sean opening up would clarify things; instead, there are more questions than ever. The biggest is how to get Sean help. "So . . . have you thought about talking to a therapist about this?"

"I don't know how I would talk about this without lying. No therapist is going to believe this."

Daniel chews on his lip. "Well . . . it does sound pretty wild . . . "

Sean blinks. His face crumbles. "Oh my god . . . you still think I'm lying."

"No!" Daniel says, taking his hand from Sean's shoulder. "No, I know you aren't lying."

"So, what, you just don't believe me?"

"Listen to your story, Sean. It has superpowers and time travel and alternate realities. There's cults and Dad dying, and it's all just _a lot_, bro. I don't know what happened to you that was so bad that you came up with this story where the world is falling down on you, but I can see that you're hurt. I believe the pain that you're in."

Daniel reaches out for his brother.

But Sean pulls away.

"I'm not making it up," Sean says through gritted teeth. "What about earlier? When I proved I could travel through time? How could I know all that stuff? How could I know about Noah?"

"I don't know. Maybe someone posted shit on social media? There's probably a dozen explanations that make more sense than time travel."

"What about how I knew where to find Mom? Or any of the other things that have happened on this trip?"

"Sean, I know you are being honest," Daniel says. "I know _you_ believe what you told me."

"But I need _you_ to believe me!" Sean pleads like he's drowning. "All of this is eating me alive, and I need my brother to help me, and he can't do that if he thinks I'm full of shit. Please don't look at me like I am full of shit. What—what about your headaches?"

"They're nothing. I've had them off-and-on since I was ten," Daniel says. "They just got a little worse recently, but it's not a big deal. I'm pretty sure it's related to how much caffeine I have."

Sean pauses. A seriousness comes over his face, and he mutters something about _actions_ and _consequences_. "I'm pretty sure it's your powers."

"Come on, man, I don't have super powers."

"You did. And I think you do here. Try. Please. For me." Sean points at the bed. "The Power Bear figure. Move it with your mind."

"Dude, this is crazy," Daniel protests. But Sean keeps begging, so Daniel gives in. He stares at the Power Bear figure resting on the bed. Points at it with his finger. And of course, it doesn't move. "See, Sean? Nothing."

"Because you didn't do it right," Sean says, exasperated. Daniel's brother stands behind him, chest against Daniel's back. Sean's hands rest on Daniel's shoulders, sort of bracing him like he is standing against a strong wind. In the distance, thunder quietly growls.

"Relax your shoulders," Sean says. "Extend your arm, palm out, fingers open. Take a deep breath and kind of picture yourself grabbing the figure. Imagine what the plastic feels like. Imagine the weight of it in your hand. Then . . . lift."

Daniel feels dumb. But his brother seems so upset, so desperate. Maybe trying again will placate Sean. Or maybe it will just feed his delusion. Daniel follows his brother's guidance, but, again, nothing happens.

"Keep trying," Sean says, like some kind of addict begging for a fix. "I need you to keep trying. I need you to believe me."

Daniel notices how tight Sean's grip is on his shoulders. Notices that Sean's stance has his feet on the outside of Daniel's. Daniel's heart skips a beat. His big brother has him trapped. He doesn't think Sean could ever hurt him, not physically, but Sean almost stabbed a guy. And Sean is pretty far from reality. Daniel should pick up his phone, call Dad. He eyes it. Calculates how quickly he can get to it. How long it would take to make a call.

_I have to get to my phone_. _More than anything, I need my phone before this gets bad._

Maybe he can dive for it, ninja roll across the bed. Then call his father.

Call for help.

He holds out his hand. Imagines the phone against his fingers. The weight of it. Its cool surface. He reaches for it with his mind.

**Soundtrack: "Get Better" **

**by Frank Turner**

And the phone jumps from the bed. It leaps into Daniel's hand.

"What the hell?" Daniel mutters, palm stinging, eyebrows stretching to his forehead. "How did . . . how did the phone do that?"

"The phone didn't do anything—_you_ moved it! With your mind!" Sean laughs, patting Daniel on the back. "Try it with Power Bear again."

Daniel stares, mystified at his cell phone in his right hand. There is an electric buzz in his brain, like feedback on a speaker, but he extends his left arm, concentrates on the action figure as hard as he can. Imagines its texture. Pictures its weight.

And the Power Bear figure rises, slowly and shakily, until it hovers two feet above the bed. It floats there, held by unseen hands. Except, Daniel watches with awe as it turns, back and forth as he wills it to.

"Whoa," Daniel gasps. "Am I—_I'm_ doing this!?"

Suddenly, Power Bear explodes. Shards of plastic fly in dozens of directions like little bullets across the room. Daniel and Sean duck as the superhero's foot flies at their heads.

Sean laughs on the motel floor and hugs Daniel so tight he can barely breathe. "Dude, you are powerful. You are awesome, _enano_. You are a superwolf."

"Holy shit," Daniel mutters, staring into his brother's grinning face. "That crazy-ass story . . . it was—was it really true?"

# # #

It's almost 2:00 AM, and the storm has passed. The Diaz brothers dress then drive to the middle of the desert where Sean coaches Daniel on how to throw rocks with his mind, like some kind of Marvel Comics little league. Daniel is stunned he can hurl something the size of his fist twenty feet through the air; Sean tells him this isn't even half of what he can do.

Sean fills in the details of his story that he glossed over. But mostly, they laugh, like two kids who have never been burdened by the weight of the world, exhilarated at their freedom and power.

And, in the middle of the cool desert night, far from every bad thing that has happened to them, the two wolf brothers howl at the moon.

* * *

_they threw me a whirlwind_

_and I spat back the sea_

_i took a battering _

_but ive got thicker skin _

_and the best people i know are looking out for me_

_so im taking the high road_

_my engines running high and fine_

_may I always see the road rising up to meet me _

_and my enemies defeated in the mirror behind_

_im trying to get better because I haven't been my best_

_she took a plain black marker started writing on my chest_

_she drew a line across the middle of my broken heart_

_and said, 'come on now, lets fix this mess'_

_we could get better_

_because we're not dead yet_


	33. Episode Three: The Wilderness - Fifteen

Sean wakes up fully dressed. Jeans. Hoodie. Even his sneakers. A sense of dread settles in his chest, filling his lungs like river water.

_Shit . . . it was a dream,_ he thinks. All of that stuff with art school and Dad being alive . . . it was all a horrible, cruel dream. He keeps his eyes closed, squeezing them more tightly shut. He's still on the run. He's still homeless. Everything is still awful and bearing down on him; he just escaped into a fantasy for a few hours.

Of _course_ that good life, where he is successful and safe isn't real. Good things don't happen to Sean Diaz.

Finally, he opens his eyes, expecting to see the canvas of a tent or the underside of a bridge or something worse. But above him is a motel ceiling covered in brown water stains. He waves a hand in front of his face—a hand he can see with _both_ of his eyes. He's lying on top of a bed that's still made. And beside him is his brother Daniel, who isn't a nine-year-old kid, dirty and skinny—he's a gangly and awkward sixteen-year-old.

Recollections from last night creep into Sean's sleepy brain. Sean finally came clean about the other life. About their powers. About changing the past. And after they came back from the desert, they lay beside each other on Sean's bed and talked like best friends until they fell asleep.

This isn't a cruel dream. It's real. It's actually real.

Daniel's mouth hangs open with a familiar line of drool hanging from the corner. Wearing a short sleeve t-shirt, he has wrapped his arms around himself. He kicked off his shoes and socks in the night, and they sit in a pile near his feet. He shivers. So Sean takes off his hoodie—the wolf _SQUAD_ hoodie he found in his childhood bedroom, the one that traveled with him to the border—and drapes it over his little brother.

Outside, the sun climbs towards the middle of the sky. It was almost 4:00 AM when they got back from practicing Daniel's powers. This is the latest Sean has slept in since forever. It's not long until checkout. But Sean sits on the trunk of his father's car, the cool morning air raising goosebumps on his arms, and just feels . . .

. . . like a cell door has been open.

. . . like a wall has come down.

. . . like he is free.

But the parking lot is littered with scraps of cardboard, trash, branches, and tumbleweeds—signs that a terrible storm raged as Sean struggled to tell his brother the truth.

Not everything yesterday was good.

Max warned him that a storm threatened to destroy Arcadia Bay, take everything away unless she sacrificed the person who mattered the most to her. And last night, a storm was bearing down on Away, and Sean still chose Daniel over everything.

He takes out his phone and lingers on each digit he puts in of his mom's number. He hits Call. Her phone rings.

And rings.

And rings.

That dread that filled his lungs comes back, an _oh-shit_ feeling he thought he had become numb to. And with it is guilt. If something happened to Mom, it's his fault, like it is with Chris, Cassidy, and Finn. He was so fucking stupid for ever thinking something good could happen to him without a cost.

He's about to end the call when Mom picks up. "Hello?" she says.

"Hey!" Sean says. His skate shoes hit the asphalt of the parking lot. "It's Sean. I wanted to check on you after the storm."

"Oh, Sean, hey," she says. "Everything is fine. One of the windows of my trailer got busted out, and some of my late neighbor's art pieces got wrecked, but I'm fine. Everyone around me is fine."

"I'm sorry about the window," Sean says, his lungs dumping all of the dread. "But I'm glad you're okay. Look, I wanted to say I'm sorry for any trouble we caused you yesterday. Us showing up like that . . . I know it was jarring."

"Well, I have caused sixteen years of trouble for you, your brother, and your father. I'm sure me leaving was jarring, too."

"A little," Sean says, hoping his smile comes through the phone. A few yards away, a woman buckles her small daughter into a car seat. She kisses the little girl on the forehead. It's tender and motherly. "I meant what I said yesterday, about it being cool if you wanted to be part of our lives. And I know things with Daniel went kind of bad, but deep down, I know he wants the same thing."

He hears her sigh. Then she says, "I'll try."

"That's the best any of us can do. Thanks for picking up the phone, Mom."

"Sure, Sean," she says. "One day you'll have to tell me how you found me. And how you got this number. I know I didn't give this to you yesterday."

# # #

Sean stares at the sky. Except for a couple of white clouds, it is a peaceful, clear blue.

"Dude, what are you doing out here? It's kind of cold."

Sean glances at their motel-room door, and Daniel stands there wearing the wolf SQUAD hoodie. He's barefoot.

"And yet you're not wearing shoes," Sean says and pats the spot beside him on the trunk of the car. "It's not bad if you sit in the sun."

The car shifts under Daniel's weight as he sits down. "How are you doing, _enano_?" Sean asks.

"My head is kind of buzzing, but it doesn't hurt. It kind of feels the way your muscles do after you've been working out," Daniel says. "I don't know. I just learned I have superpowers. That my brother has this whole alternate life. It's all kind of . . . a lot. I don't even know how to begin to say what I'm feeling."

"I get that," Sean says. "I have this feeling that I only remember getting three other times. The first was when we were sleeping under a bridge, just hours after Dad died. I got it again in a holding cell after I gave myself up at the border. And the last time I felt it was a few months ago, after I changed the past and heard Dad's voice for the first time in years. I don't know what the feeling is called, but it's like . . . everything is _different_ now."

"I'm a little scared." Daniel's fists disappear into the sleeves of the hoodie. He sets his chin on them. "I mean, in your other life, a lot of bad things happened because I got powers. And now I have to figure them out. And what if I use them and someone gets hurt? What am I supposed to do with them? Do I hide them? Am I a superhero?"

"That's all legit and good reasons to be confused or scared," Sean says, and he sets a hand on Daniel's back. "I'm sorry you have to deal with this. But you have me, and I will be with you every step of the way. And you are totally strong enough to handle this because, dude, you are the strongest person I know."

"Thanks," Daniel says quietly. "How about you? How are you doing?"

Sean starts to say he's fine but stops himself; he's not lying to Daniel anymore. "You know what I said about Max Caulfield? I keep thinking about how Chris is dead, and maybe other people, and how maybe it's my fault. And I made a big choice last night coming clean with you, and now I'm worried that the storm is going to come."

"So here's a thing," Daniel says, "what if nothing bad happens? Like, I know you lived through this thing where every choice you made led to something bigger and even worse happening. But that doesn't mean life is always going to be like that, right?"

"It would be a big change from how it's been for the past five years," Sean says with a sigh.

"But you changed time itself," Daniel says. "And like you just said: _everything_ is different now. And let's say the storm does hit . . . then I have your back, bro." Sean feels Daniel's hand on his shoulder. "I'll knock the storm back with my powers. Or, at least, throw rocks at it since that's all I can do right now. But we'll face it. Together."

"Well, okay. I guess if there's one thing I learned through it all, there is nothing the Diaz brothers can't handle as long as they are together."

And so they sit on the back of their father's car, staring at the clear sky at the start of a new day.

# # #

Sean's drive back to Seattle with his little brother is filled with stories that develop into inside jokes, with singing loudly (and off key) to songs they loved growing up, and and with occasional pit stops to practice Daniel's powers. As he talks Daniel through lifting pop cans with his mind, Sean realizes he hasn't seen his brother this legitimately happy since before their dad got shot.

And Sean hasn't felt this unburdened since he was sixteen.

He feels like a kid—like the kid he never got to be.

They take a detour to the coast of California, stopping at the beach. Sean is caught off guard that Daniel is strong enough to lift him on his shoulders then drop him into the water. Sean, with a lot of effort, can still suplex Daniel over his head, though. Later, as they sit on the sand, the sun drying their shorts, Sean catches Daniel staring at him.

"Uh, are you checking me out or something, bro?" Sean says.

"Gross, no," Daniel says. "I'm just looking at your tattoo. It really is way cooler than I thought it'd be. You think Dad would really let me get one before I'm eighteen?"

"He seemed open to it at Christmas. And you don't have to wait." Sean stands up, brushes sand off his legs. He motions for Daniel to follow him back to the car where Sean pulls a sharpie from his bag.

"You're kidding," Daniel says.

"Come on. It'll be like when we were kids."

"God, Dad would get so pissed when you tatted me up," Daniel says. "You remember that time you gave me the dragon that went all up my back and chest? Dad handed us the water hose and dish soap and wouldn't let us back inside until it was gone."

"I think Dad was mostly upset that I gave the dragon a massive dong that went down your arm. I think it looked wicked cool, though. The tattoos you drew on me were never as cool."

"Dude, I was, like, five!"

"The only things you could draw were Power Bear and the poop emoji," Sean says, uncapping the marker. "I could at least draw Sonic the Hedgehog when I was five."

Daniel rolls his eyes and leans against the side of the car. "If I let you draw on me, you gotta promise not to draw any dicks. If you draw a dick, I get to punch you as hard as I can."

"I'll do my best, but I'm just the conduit. If my artistic vision includes dicks, then I can't compromise that," Sean says, setting the tip of the marker against his brother's chest. Other beach-goers stare at them, but it doesn't seem to matter. And when Sean is done, his brother has a pretty sick temporary tattoo of a family of wolves, the smallest one in the center.

Later, at a public rest stop, they take the douchiest mirror selfies of their tattoos. An older white guy walks in on them while they are shirtless, flexing, and taking pictures of their reflections; the man immediately backs out of the room like two bare-chested Mexican kids is the most awkward thing he has ever seen.

But when Sean and Daniel are done, they post their photos to Instagram. Daniel is the first person to "like" Sean's, and Sean is the first person to "like" Daniel's. They actually follow each other's accounts now.

# # #

Sean drives the car through the southern part of Washington, only a few hours from Seattle, along a narrow road where the trees stretch so high they almost block the sun. A bittersweet ache scratches at his heart. On one hand, he's ready to get back to Savannah to see Toby to find out what comes after "_te amo_." On the other, he isn't ready for this time with Daniel to be over.

"When I get back to Georgia, you're going to actually text me back sometimes, right?" Sean asks.

"Of course," Daniel says. "You're not going to suddenly forget about me again, are you?"

"I promise, bro," Sean says. "That will not hap—"

Sean never finishes his sentence.

In the oncoming lane, a station wagon rounds the corner in front of them when, suddenly, a stag and a doe leap into the road.

The station wagon hits the stag, flipping the animal onto the hood, then over the top of the vehicle. Dented, windshield cracked, the station wagon wobbles then careens off the side of the road.

The doe stops in Sean and Daniel's lane, stares at them dumb and scared, a giant wall of fur and bone daring them to crash.

They are going too fast. There's no way to stop the car in time. "Shit!" Sean shouts, slamming the brake against the floorboard. The seatbelt squeezes his chest. The tires squeal against the asphalt. A hot, rubber smell burns Sean's nose as he closes his eyes, strains his muscles, braces for impact.

But the impact never comes.

The car stops without a crash. When Sean opens his eyes, the doe floats in the air, inches away from the windshield. It blinks, frightened and confused, and one of its hooves thumps against the hood of the car.

Beside him, Daniel's arms are extended. Sweat pours from the kid's forehead; his t-shirt is stuck to his chest, which moves in and out like a hyperventilating hummingbird's. A vein throbs in his forehead.

Over the past couple of days, Daniel has struggled to pick up items the weight of a brick. Now, he's lifting almost 200 pounds of animal.

"Good job, _enano_," Sean says, letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "You saved us."

"I . . . can't . . ." Daniel squeaks.

And then the deer explodes.

It's like the animal is a water balloon, filled to the point of bursting. A mass of skin and fur splats against the car, followed by blood, which splashes over the windshield and hood, painting everything red. Wet, slapping sounds hit the roof as pieces of meat rain down. Sean thinks he can make out an eyeball on the wiper blade.

"Holy shit," he says.

"Oh my god oh my god oh my god," Daniel mutters. "I—I didn't mean to do that." He places his fingers against his mouth, rocks back and forth in the passenger's seat, would bang his head against the dashboard if the seatbelt didn't hold him back.

Sean unbuckles his seat belt and wraps Daniel in a hug, desperately trying to hold him still. God, the kid's shirt is soaked in sweat; it feels like he just climbed out of a swimming pool. "It's okay," Sean says. "You saved us. Everything is alright, _enano_."

"I killed it I didn't mean to but I killed it," Daniel babbles. "Oh my god I killed it."

"It was an accident," Sean says, and he presses his cheek against his brother's wet forehead. Then he rests a finger under Daniel's chin, turns Daniel's face gently to look at him. Daniel's eyes are pink; his pupils are wide, swallowing his irises. "Hey, I need you to breathe, okay? That other car, I need to go check on the person driving it. You saved us, you hear? You did something right. You didn't do anything wrong."

"The deer, though. I didn't mean to kill it," Daniel whimpers. He's sixteen, much closer to adult than child, but he looks like a frightened little boy.

"I know," Sean says, pulling out his cellphone. He unlocks it and places it in Daniel's hand. He has to give Daniel a reason to be strong. "I need you to call 911, okay? Tell them to get out here. That there's been an accident. You can do that, right, _enano_?"

Daniel nods. But Sean is not sure the kid heard a single word.

When Sean opens the door, he steps into a pool of blood and viscera. Jesus Christ, it's like a nightmare has vomited on their car. He can make out a severed hoof. An intestine is wrapped around the side mirror. As awful as it is inside the vehicle, it's much worse out here, and suddenly it seems important to keep Daniel from seeing this. "Do not get out of the car—and call 911!" Sean orders, slamming the door shut before Daniel can respond.

The other deer, the stag, is still alive. Its stomach has opened, and organs spill onto the smear of blood on the blacktop. It twitches. But can't stand. A bone sticks out of one of its legs, which is bent at a ninety-degree angle. It would be a kindness to kill it and put it out of its misery.

But all Sean can do is mutter, "Shit . . ."

Off the side of the road, the brown and white station wagon has a tree sticking out of its hood; the front of the vehicle just split, like it was a stick of butter being thrown against a knife. Broken slivers of glass crunch beneath Sean's feet as he approaches the back of the station wagon, and an eerie _déjà vu_ creeps up his spine.

The windshield and the driver's-side window are completely shattered, and the driver slumps over the steering wheel.

He's a larger guy, kind of husky. Has a beard and glasses. His neck is smeared with blood "Hey!" Sean says, but the driver doesn't respond, so Sean reaches through the broken window, shakes the man by the shoulder. "Dude, you've been in an accident. Can you—can you hear me?"

The man makes a noise that's half groan, half gurgle, and he turns his head enough for Sean to see a familiar face.

"Brody?" Sean gasps.

This guy who helped them in the other life blinks behind broken glasses. A piece of shrapnel sticks out of his throat, like life is giving Sean a middle finger. "Do I . . . know you?"

"Hang on, man," Sean says. "It's going to be—it's all going to be okay." Even as he says it, Sean knows it's a lie. Far off in the distance, he hears sirens—Daniel must have pulled himself together enough to call 911—but Brody's breathing is slowing.

Then it stops altogether.

"Shit," Sean mutters. "Brody, dude, hang in there. Please? Please don't die, man."

But Brody doesn't answer.

He's already gone.

And up the road, standing over the broken body of the stag, Sean sees what scared the deer in the first place: it's a pair of wolves, one noticeably smaller than the other. The larger one looks up, glares at Sean with its one eye, before it and its brother drag the deer back into the woods.

**Soundtrack - Outro: "The Wolves" **

**by J. J. and the Pillars**

* * *

**This has been "The Bravest Wolf in the World"**

**A **_**Life is Strange 2**_** Fan Fiction**

**Episode Three: The Wilderness**

* * *

_so run run run the wolves are coming for you_

_be quiet as the wind because he's tracking you_

_so run run run remember what he said_

_. . ._

_you better take your chances now or you'll end up dead_


	34. Episode Four: The Storm - Chapter One

_Once upon a time in a wild, wild world, there were two wolf brothers living in their home lair with their papa wolf._

_They lived in peace . . . and nothing bad ever happened to them._

_But the big brother had a secret._

_He was a super wolf who had changed the past._

_In another life, the two wolf brothers faced many hardships._

_They lost their papa to hunters._

_They had to leave their home._

_And danger always followed them._

_In the end, the big brother let himself be taken by the hunters, so the little one could be safe._

_But in this new life he had made, the big brother felt like the little wolf was not part of his pack. _

_And the big brother missed the little wolf very, very much._

_A doe warned him that this might be the price for saving their papa . . . the cost of the better life for the two wolf brothers._

_But the big brother took the little one on a journey, and they met their ancestors and found their rogue mother. _

_And the big brother told the little one everything . . . including that the little one was also a super wolf. _

_And so they became one pack again. _

_However, on their way back to their home lair, they found a bear dead on the side of the road . . . a bear that had helped the brothers in the other life. _

_And though the two wolf brothers were happy, the big brother never slept well at night. _

_He was always on edge, waiting for a storm that he feared would take everything away . . ._

**Episode Four – The Storm**

**Soundtrack - Intro: "On Melancholy Hill"**

**by Gorillaz**

_Seattle, Washington_

_December 2017_

_In the timeline where Esteban Diaz never died_

_Eight months before Sean Diaz begins art school in Savannah, Georgia_

It's the first day of winter break, and Sean Diaz finished his second-to-last semester of high school with straight _A_'s . . . except for that _B+_ in AP Statistics because Mr. Wharton is a hardass.

Outside Sean's bedroom window, a gentle snow lightly dusts the dead grass. Sean sits on his bed in his wolf SQUAD hoodie and a pair of sweatpants. A copy of Kurt Vonnegut's _The Sirens of Titans_ lies beside him. He's read it twice because his AP Literature teacher next semester is the same woman who gave him a _B_ for his _Slaughterhouse-Five_ essay last year, and he has this masochistic Diaz-pride thing where now he has to "prove something" by writing the best essay Mrs. Calloway has ever seen.

He'd intended to get started, but instead he keeps doodling in his sketchbook this image of a boy walking down a road by himself. Versions of it show up on the last several pages of the sketchbook. It's an image Sean has been coming back to over and over for weeks—a boy, by himself, no responsibilities. No burdens or restrictions. Just free.

His laptop rests on his pillow with a videochat open with his best friend Lyla. He holds the sketchbook to the camera and asks her what she thinks.

"It looks the same as the last five times you've shown me," she says.

"This time the boy is looking straight ahead, though, at what comes next," Sean says, "instead of at his feet, watching what he might step on."

"It looks great, Sean. Everything you draw looks great except the dicks you cover my notebook with," she says. "It would make a pretty cool tattoo."

Sean holds his sketchbook in front of him. "It would?" He wants a tattoo, totally, but he's never really known what to get. Like, what if he gets something and then changes his mind? Tattoos are choices that are so . . . permanent. You can't undo them.

"What do you think of this?" Lyla asks, and a link to Amazon shows up in their chat.

Sean clicks it, and a window opens to some throw pillows that say _Bitch King_ and _Queen Bitch_ on them. "Classy."

"I thought they would look good on our futon," Lyla says. Lyla, like Sean, has been accepted to Washington State University. Their freshman year, they have to live in the dorms, but after that, Lyla has this whole plan for the two of them to share an apartment. She's been online shopping for decorations during their whole conversation. This is the third set of throw pillows Sean has seen in the last hour.

"I don't know that I want people's first impression of me to be that I'm a 'bitch' even if I'm a 'king' too," Sean mutters.

"Dude, why are you in such a grumpy mood?" Lyla asks. "And don't say you're not. I can totally recognize 'Grumpy Sean' a mile away."

Sean drums his pencil on his sketchbook to stop himself from glaring. Because there are two reasons he's in such a bad mood. One of them, he can't tell Lyla about, and the fact that she is planning out their whole college career at lame-ass Washington State is making things worse. The other thing . . . Lyla is going to give him so much shit for.

He has to tell her one of them, so he braces himself to receive shit.

"Jenn and I had plans to see a movie this afternoon, but that got shut down when Dad put me on 'Daniel Duty.'"

"Oh my god, Sean, you are such a pathetic weenie," Lyla says. "You slept with her, what, a year ago? And you're still hung up on her? She's not into you, dude."

"I know she's not _into_ me . . . I thought we could hang out. _Maybe_ we would make out or hook up, I don't know." He shades in a shadow behind the boy in his sketchbook. "I'm mostly pissed that this is, like, the one day besides Christmas that I don't have to work, and I'm stuck watching Daniel. He's almost eleven. That's how old I was when I started babysitting him. I don't get why he can't take care of himself."

"Oh no, how awful, you have to spend time with your adorable, sweet little brother! Your life is _so_ horrible!" Lyla mocks.

And, as if on cue, a giant crash comes from the kitchen.

"I'll talk to you later," Sean mutters. "Hopefully. You might have to visit me in jail after I murder this child."

He closes his laptop and steps out of his room. What he sees on the kitchen floor makes him raise his hands to his head.

Last night, Dad made a giant vat of chili—enough to last them three days. The pot is upside-down on the floor. Most of the chili spreads over the kitchen vinyl, inching slowly like a peaceful ocean creeping up the shore at high tide; the rest of the chili coats Sean's brother, who sits in the middle of the mess with a roll of paper towels under his arm—a roll that the kid has already dropped, so it drips beef and sauce into the savory lake on the floor.

"Daniel, what the actual _fuck_, dude?" Sean asks.

"I'm sorry!" Daniel whimpers. "I was trying to get some for lunch, and—and the pot just slipped. I'll clean it up!"

"Those paper towels aren't going to do anything. You wasted all of that food, and now you're just wasting paper towels. And, Christ, it's all over your clothes too. Didn't Dad _just_ buy you that shirt?" Sean drags his hands over his face. "You messed everything up, dude."

"I'm sorry." Daniel lowers his head. "I can fix it."

"No, stop, youwill only make it worse." Sean sighs. "Leave your clothes on the floor, and go hop in the shower. I'll clean up your mess. Like I _always_ do."

"I'm not getting naked in the kitchen, Sean!" Daniel says.

"Oh my god—please don't argue with me, okay?" Sean says. "I'm going to the basement to get some towels from the laundry, so I won't see your scrawny ass, but if you walk across the carpet with your chili-covered socks or drip chili off your pants, I will _literally_ kill you. Please do what I say, so I can fix this without you making it harder."

The look in Daniel's eyes is part pathetic, part embarrassed, and part defiant. He is about to argue back, and if Sean stays, he'll argue too and things will spiral out into a giant blow up. So Sean—since he's the older brother and will therefore get all the blame if he lets this escalate into a for-real fight—stomps down to the basement so Daniel can get in the shower.

As he's pulling towels out of the dryer, a pang of guilt stabs his ribs. Obviously, Daniel didn't mean to drop the chili. And the kid probably feels humiliated, and Sean really rubbed it in. But Daniel is also so infuriatingly helpless that it's hard to show him sympathy.

_Maybe I should apologize to him_, Sean thinks as he comes up the stairs with an armful of towels. The chili and the pot still sit in the kitchen floor, but now a middle schooler's pants, t-shirt, and underwear sit with them. The Diazes' ancient, cold pipes creak as the shower pulls hot water through them and into the bathroom. And Sean kneels down, trying to gather the mess in one of the towels.

It's like trying to empty a lake with a spoon. He bushes beef and beans around into a pile, but it doesn't feel like the mess is getting _better_, so he stands up and lays his forehead on the kitchen counter.

This is all his life is going to be, isn't it?. Just . . . taking care of his family and cleaning up his brother's messes.

Lyla was wrong. He's not 'Grumpy Sean' today. He's 'Disappointed Sean.' He doesn't want to go to Washington State, and he feels like such an asshole, like he's betraying his best friend for not wanting a part of her plan where they live together and have an awesome apartment. But Washington State was his safety school. It wasn't even his Plan B. It was, like, Plan Z.

He applied to a bunch of art schools. Most of them in California, but there was that one in Georgia that he really thought he had a chance at. But he hasn't heard back from any of them. Which, realistically, he would need to get a _generous_ amount of financial aid even if he did get in. They're all expensive, and his job as grocery boy doesn't pay _that_ well.

And it's not like he would be able to go that far from home anyway. He chuckles sadly, looking over the mess on his kitchen floor. Like, how would his brother ever survive without him? What would Dad do without him around to help? Sean _needs_ to be here for his family. _Familia es lo más importante_, afterall.

And maybe it won't be so bad, you know. After college, maybe he can work at Dad's garage. Use his art skills to design logos for local businesses. Slowly work his way up at, like, an advertising firm or something.

But still, it just sucks to see the door of your future close before you even touch the doorknob.

It sucks to be trapped in a life you didn't get to choose for yourself.

"This is dumb," Sean mutters. "Feeling sorry for myself is dumb." He lifts his forehead from the counter, and out the kitchen window he sees the mail truck on their street. He glances again at the chili mess, which now seems overwhelming. So instead of fighting a losing battle with beans and ground beef, he slips on his shoes and goes out to the mailbox. Inside are a couple of bills. One of those advertisement things from their grocery store.

And an envelope that makes Sean come to a dead stop on the sidewalk.

He stares at it, mouth hanging open. His hands tremble, and not from the snowflakes landing on his bare skin. The letter is addressed to him.

And it's from the Savannah College of Art and Design.

# # #

_Seattle, Washington_

_December 2017_

_In the timeline where Esteban Diaz was shot_

_Eight months before Sean Diaz is transferred to Washington State Penitentiary _

On this same day in the world where Sean turned himself in at the border, he did not get an acceptance letter to art school. In fact, nothing special happened to him. It was just another day in juvenile detention, a day like all of the others.

* * *

_if you cant get what you want_

_then you come with me_


	35. Episode Four: The Storm - Chapter Two

_Los Angeles, California_

_May 2025_

_Two years after Sean and Daniel's road trip to meet their mother_

**Soundtrack: "Simple Song"**

**by The Shins**

**5:00 AM**

It's Friday of the last full week of May, and Sean Diaz feels the exhaustion in his bones as he wakes up to his coffee pot boiling water. His apartment, which is above a Chinese restaurant, is a single, giant room with some kitchen appliances, his bed, a futon, and a desk. The bathroom is barely a closet; his knees bump his shower whenever he sits on the toilet. So the coffee pot's burbling echoes off the walls in the eerie silence of Los Angeles before sunrise.

Sean yawns, grabs his phone from where it charges on the floor, and when the coffee finishes boiling, he downs half a cup in one swallow, not even noticing the way it burns his throat.

Then he calls his brother Daniel—who hangs up on the seventh ring.

So Sean calls again. And again, Daniel ends the call without answering.

The third time, Daniel finally answers. His voice is groggy, slow, and half-asleep. "Sean? What's wrong? It's the middle of the night."

"It's actually first-thing in the morning," Sean says cheerily. "And I wanted to be the very first person to tell you to have an _amazing_ last day of high school."

A raspy stream of air fills the speaker as Daniel sighs. "You are such a douchebag."

"I can't believe you would say something so insulting about me, your only brother in the whole world, your brother who adores you," Sean says, clutching his chest. "But seriously, though, I hope you have a great day. You're awesome. And I'm proud of you. And I'm stoked to see you next week at your graduation."

"I'm more stoked about spending the week after that with you in LA," Daniel yawns. "But thank you. I wish you weren't saying this at the ass-crack of dawn, though."

"And," Sean says slyly, "I should remind you that today might be the last time you see that Anna Huynh girl, so you should probably actually ask her out instead of being a pussy."

"Ugh, it is too early for this," Daniel whines. "I'll Facetime you tonight, though, if you're not too busy with work stuff."

"I'm never too busy for you, _enano_," Sean says, his shoulders popping as he stretches.

# # #

**8:20 AM**

Sean sits at his desk with the tablet and the fancy stylus he bought with his first paychecks from Nickelodeon. He promised his supporters that issue twelve of his self-published _Superwolf_ comic would go online tonight, and he's kind of behind schedule because he kept fussing with the inks on the last four pages last night.

This is the issue where Superwolf saves his brother from the hunter Hunk Stomper that kidnapped and chained him up inside the back of a energy station, and the moment needs to land exactly, dramatically right.

So Sean keeps coloring and recoloring the same image of the two wolf brothers finally being reunited. Sometimes in dark tones. Sometimes in light. It has to be perfect.

It's not perfect yet, though.

So he sighs, walks over to the kitchen-side of his apartment, and pours what's left of the coffee into his mug. His patrons would understand if he pushed back the deadline, but his Diaz-drive won't allow him to consider it. On his page, there is an intense debate between two users—_2000Cardaddy2007_ and _KRShootingStar_—about what happens next. _Cardaddy_ and_ ShootingStar_ are Sean's father and mother, but he isn't sure if they know they are talking to each other. Apparently they had a phone call last week about her coming up for Daniel's graduation, but neither will say anything to him or Daniel about what was said besides that the call went well.

# # #

**11:14 AM**

Sean has been at his workstation at Nickelodeon's animation studio in Burbank for a couple of hours now. No one would notice if he didn't show up until 10:00, but he likes being able to get work in without a bunch of people walking past his desk to refresh their coffee.

Also, he has to solve The Bean Problem.

Dad brags about Sean's job to absolutely everyone. Anytime Sean is back in Seattle and they run into someone Dad even tangentially knows, they ask about how life is being a "big shot cartoonist out in Hollywood." But the truth is that Sean works on a spinoff of Nickelodeon's _Loud House_, a spinoff which has shit ratings and will probably get canceled this year. He's also a prop designer, so if a character, say, picks up a can of pop, then Sean gets to draw the can of pop. That's it. It's still pretty awesome, and everyone starts somewhere, but he is very, very far from being "a big shot cartoonist out in Hollywood."

In an upcoming episode, there's a character who has an entire room of her house stocked with cans of beans. Like, this lady fuckin' _loves_ her beans, alright? But the thing is, for the gag to work, the cans of beans need to be distinct. Which means Sean has to find a way to draw, like, fifty unique styles of bean cans that are visually interesting and also funny.

He's been at this for a week, and he ran out of fart jokes on Day Two (he's weirdly proud of the can of beans and onions he labeled _Tear Gas_). It's become a personal Hell. When his coworkers see him emerge from his station, they say he looks like he's returning from Vietnam.

Sean is starting to hate beans. It has _bean_ enough to make him question everything, and oh god he is even thinking in bean puns when is this agony going to end?

"Hey, kid," Sean's supervisor Jared, a scruffy-bearded dude who always wears flannels or heavy metal t-shirts says.

"Is '_Monty Python's the Bean-ing of Life'_ too esoteric of a joke for a kid's show?" Sean asks, and his eyes actually ache as he looks up from his computer screen.

"Whoa," Jared says. "Okay, first, you _have_ to start taking breaks before your union comes in and starts eating my ass, okay? And second . . . I was just in a meeting with some of the higher ups, and I happened to mention that there's this hard-working, talented kid on my show who has this popular Internet comic about a wolf with superpowers. They thought that might make a good kid's show, and they are interested in hearing your pitch next week."

Sean blinks, and his eyelids feel like sandpaper scraping his corneas. "Wait. What?"

"Don't get _too_ excited," Jared says. "The powers-that-be listen to hundreds of pitches a year and only request pilots for, like, twenty of them, and then from there only one or so makes it to series. But . . . it would be good experience for you, so when you _are_ ready to run your own show, you have an understanding of how to talk to people making decisions."

"Oh my god." Sean hops up from his seat. Grins. And before he knows it, he's hugging his boss. "Sir, thank you so much! This is so cool."

"It's absolutely no trouble, kid," Jared says. "You're talented, but more importantly, you get along with everyone, you work hard, and you are, like, the most dependable kid I've seen in years. But, seriously, go take a two-hour lunch, okay? You work way too hard for someone who lives in Hollywood. And don't call me 'sir.' It's weird."

# # #

**12:27 PM**

Sean takes the two-hour lunch but feels guilty about it, like he isn't working hard enough, even though his boss (jokingly?) said he'd be fired if he comes back before 1:30. Sean inhales a bánh mì in, like, fifteen minutes, so he ends up going to a coffee shop that vaguely reminds him of the one where he met up with Max Caulfield back in Augusta.

He's gotten so used to always being stressed that he isn't sure what to do with sixty more minutes of downtime. He texts his dad about the possible Superwolf pitch, and of course Dad is excited and of course Dad is proud, and Sean has to keep explaining that it's not _really_ that big of a deal but Dad insists that it is and that he's so proud of his son and, though this is all happening through text message, Sean can practically hear Dad telling Juan and all of the guys at the shop about how awesome his kid is.

It's embarrassing, but after living years with Dad dead and worrying that Esteban Diaz would be ashamed of his son for being in jail, a little embarrassment is a small price to pay. Sean will never get tired of hearing that Dad's proud of him.

He still has a _lot_ of time left in his lunch, so Sean starts flipping through old messages. There's this girl, Dasha, that he sort-of dated for a few months last year. They've hooked up a few times since their mutual breakup. He's in Seattle next weekend, and Daniel's in Los Angeles the week after that, but maybe she's free_ this_ weekend? It would be nice to have sex sometime this quarter.

_Hey girl u up?_ seems like it would be pretty funny text to get around 1:00 PM.

But before he can put in his booty call, Sean's phone vibrates. It's a message from Toby: _Hey would it be cool if I crashed at your place at the end of June?_

Sean's eyes widen. The legs of his chair scratch the tile as he sits up a little straighter. "Be cool, Diaz," he whispers to himself as he types: _Yeah that's fine what's up in June?_ He rereads it. It sounds pretty neutral. And he hits Send.

_Job interview with Disney_, Toby sends back.

And, holy shit, Sean's heart does a back flip. He stands up. Paces around his chair. Realizes he is in public and looks like a total crazy person and sits back down, but he bounces his knee up and down like an ADHD kid full of caffeine and cocaine. Which, okay, he just downed a latte so he _might_ be an ADHD kid full of caffeine. He and Toby broke up a couple of years ago when Sean started working in Los Angeles for Nickelodeon because Toby went to work in Atlanta with Adult Swim. They tried to make it work long distance, but it was unsatisfying only ever having a fraction of the person you wanted. And it wasn't fair for either of them to give up their careers.

But after Toby got his heart broken by this douche named Cash last winter, it was Sean he called every-other night for a couple of weeks. And Sean _always_ wants to fill Toby in on his big life events. Like, Toby even knows Daniel's graduation is next week.

So if Toby gets a job in LA, then that would mean they would be in the same place. Their careers wouldn't be at odds. And maybe_, _just _maybe _. . . Sean shakes his head. No, that's dumb. _Don't overthink this. Don't make a plan for something that isn't going to happen. You know life never works out the way you plan, you dumbass._

Sean sends: _That is so cool! I'm happy for you._ And he taps his phone against his chin. He ends up sending: _Heads up my futon is pretty uncomfortable._

And then he gets a message that stretches his grin from one ear to another: _Well how about your bed though?_

**Soundtrack: End "Simple Song"**

# # #

**6:10 PM **

Sean sits in a chair, squeezing a stress ball in his therapist's office. He has been seeing Dr. Martinez for a little over a year now, and he is astounded at how much talking to someone every week helps. Like, he never judged people for needing therapy. He never thought they were weak. But it took him forever to accept that _he_ needed it. He always thought that if he worked harder, acted smarter, was generally _better_, then he would be okay.

Turns out, no, a bunch of traumatic shit happened to him, and he totally needed professional help to unpack it.

Obviously, Max had a point about therapy: you can't go talking about time travel and psychic powers without sounding delusional and like you shouldn't be part of larger society.

So Sean does some creative edits. He didn't lose an eye during the explosion at Merrill's, just spent some time in a hospital. His brother didn't kill a cop with telekinesis, just assaulted one with a baseball bat. And he didn't use time travel to get out of jail, he served his time and got out on good behavior.

Other than that, he tries to be completely honest. Of course, he is limited to mostly talking about the old life; getting into all of his problems in this one would only complicate things.

"How are the nightmares?" Dr. Martinez asks.

"I had one this week about the guys who assaulted me in the desert," Sean says, pressing a knuckle into the stress ball. "But I kind of realized it was a dream, and I was able to turn my abs into metal, and then it turned out I was piloting a giant robot like a Gundam or something, so it was more weird than traumatic. I didn't wake up sweating or anything. But I was watching _Parasite_, and there's a scene where someone gets tied up in a basement, and it got me thinking about the guy who tied me up in the gas station. And when I went to my tiny bathroom, I felt . . . trapped. I started to have a panic attack, but I did the breathing exercise we talked about, and I think I managed it okay."

"That still sounds like great progress, Sean." Dr. Martinez smiles.

"Thanks." He sets the stress ball in his lap and studies the lines of the tattoo on his forearm, which he traces with a finger.

"Sean, I would like to ask you about that tattoo."

"What about it?"

"When you first started seeing me, it was a single boy."

Sean has updated the tattoo since he has been in LA. There used to only be one boy, walking a road by himself. Now there is a second, smaller and obviously younger boy that follows behind him. And further behind them are two wolves, a large one and a small one.

"I guess I figured that boy shouldn't be alone anymore," Sean says.

"What do the wolves mean?"

"I think wolves are cool," Sean laughs. "They're strong. And brave. They have, like, families and are really loyal to each other. They are also wicked cool to draw."

"I see," Dr. Martinez says, and her pen scratches at her notebook. "I've always assumed the first boy is you. Who is the second one?"

"My brother, I guess."

"A lot of our conversations circle back to your brother Daniel. You always say he's your favorite person, but you realize a lot of the problems you talk to me about involve him in some way, right?"

"I do," Sean sighs. "Believe me. I do."

"It can't be easy giving up part of your childhood to raise him. Even before your father passed away, it sounds like you had to be a kind of parent for him at a young age. You had to take care of him when you were homeless and on the run. And then you went to jail to keep him out of trouble."

"I'm the older brother. I'm responsible for looking out for him."

"I hear that, and that makes sense for a teenager to see things that way. However, you're twenty-four now, Sean. You're an adult. Do you really think a sixteen-year-old is old enough to be responsible for a child . . . or do you think sixteen-year-old Sean was just a child himself?"

Dr. Martinez wears glasses, and even though he can see her eyes, the glasses make her hard to read. Usually, she lets him "lead" the conversations. He babbles. She questions him. He works through things. He has no idea where she is going with this, but her questions make him uneasy, defensive. Like he's a wolf with a leg caught in a trap. "Sure, I was just a kid when all that went down, but someone had to take care of Daniel. If not me, then who?"

"Your grandparents," Dr. Martinez says. "Your mother. The state. A family friend."

"We don't have family friends, not any that would raise a child," Sean scoffs. "And my grandparents . . . yeah, they took Daniel in while I was in jail, but at the time, they were totally out of the picture. And my mom . . . look, I'm cool with her, but she's not exactly 'raise a child' material."

"You're missing the point. The particulars of _who_ takes responsibility doesn't matter," she says. "It's that the problem you stated was 'Who will take care of _Daniel_?' Why not 'Who will take care of _us_?' Why weren't you thinking of it as 'Who will look out for Daniel _and Sean_?' or 'Who will look after _me_?'"

Sean presses his fists to his forehead. This is making him so uncomfortable, like a hot poker is being held an inch from his chest. Like a butter knife is being slowly moved back and forth against his arm. He squirms in his chair like a kindergartner who has to go to the bathroom. "No one was going to look out for us. I had to do it."

"Is that true, though? I don't want you to think about how you felt back then. I want you to look at this as an adult. Imagine all of this happened to two other kids besides you and your brother. Do you really think it is for a sixteen-year-old child to decide what happens to them? Should a sixteen-year-old _child_ have that much responsibility?"

Sean sniffles. He drags a hand over his eye. "What was I supposed to do? What do you want me to say?"

Dr. Martinez is silent for a long moment. "Do you resent your brother Daniel?"

"What the fuck?" Sean says, and it almost sounds like a sob. "Of course not. I love my brother."

Dr. Martinez shakes her head. "I didn't ask if you hated him. I asked if you resented him. If you ever feel frustrated by him, like he's an obstacle in your way. Or if you feel like life would be easier without him."

Suddenly it feels like being in a car, the brakes slammed to the floorboard, the tires squealing to a stop.

This is what he said to Daniel in the desert, outside Mom's trailer in Away.

It's what he admitted in the motel when he came clean about time travel and everything. That while his life wouldn't be _better_ without Daniel, it should would be _easier_.

He doesn't want to answer this. So he looks down at the stress ball that he is strangling in his hand and shrugs.

Suddenly, his therapist's voice turns from clinical to gentle, the way his dad sounded when he taught Sean how to ride a bike without training wheels. She assures him that he is safe. She says he did a good job. She acknowledges this is hard for him and that she pushed him.

"I have one more thing I want to probe, and then we'll be done with today's session. You seem to associate love for your brother with sacrifice. You prioritize his having a normal upbringing over you having one. His happiness is more important than yours. Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know," Sean says, crossing his arms.

"Take your time."

He sighs. "I don't . . . I don't deserve good things."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because I don't!" He immediately feels bad for snapping, so he lowers his voice. "They would just be . . . wasted on me. Because good things in my life always go away." She doesn't interrupt him, and he ends up filling the silence himself. "My mom left me when I was seven. My dad died because a cop shot him. The fucking people who should keep us safe took my dad away. I lost my home. My life. My future. My freedom. Everything. Like, everything wouldn't get taken from me if I deserved to have good things, so it's just better if someone else has those good things. Then those things can't be taken away. Losing them sucks more than simply not having them at all."

"But is it true that you always lose good things in your life? You've been out of jail for a couple of years now, right? And you reconnected with your mother and grandparents, and they are still around. And though I'm troubled by your relationship with your brother, he's a good thing in your life that has always been there. You seem to have friends and healthy romantic relationships. Are those not good things? Do you think you don't deserve them?"

"Those are all good things." Suddenly, he shivers. It _is_ kind of chilly in Dr. Martinez's office, but the temperature isn't why goose pimples are rising on his arms. He sniffles.

"You seem to be having a strong reaction to this," Dr. Martinez says, holding out a box of tissues.

Sean takes one but only clutches it instead of moving it to his face. "I mean, you're right . . . those are all good things. And I just realized that I could lose them."

_And my job._

_And Toby._

_And my dad. Again._

"I'm going to ask you to say something. And until I see you next week, I want you to practice saying it as much as you can. Every time you see yourself in a mirror. When you wake up in the morning. When you go to bed at night. I want you to repeat this: _I deserve the good things in my life, and they are not going to be taken away from me._"

"Dr. Martinez, I don't know . . . "

She smiles gently. "Just give it a try. Humor me."

He takes a deep breath. For some reason, getting the words over his lips feels like pushing a boulder. "I deserve the good things in my life . . . and they are not going to be taken away from me."

# # #

**10:48 PM**

Sean's eyes hurt. His back hurts. His brain hurts. His stomach kind of hurts, but that's probably from wolfing down his dinner from the Chinese place downstairs too fast; everything else is because he's been sitting at the desk in his apartment, reading and rereading the twelfth issue of _Superwolf_. Technically, it's done. But he can't silence the voice that keeps whispering that it could be _better_, that he is missing some obvious error, like he has left out an entire page.

After another twenty minutes, though, he is so exhausted that he finally gives in and posts the damn thing.

# # #

**11:45 PM**

Sean lies in his bed watching _Get Out_ on his laptop. All this time later, and he still feels like he's catching up on movies and television he missed while in prison. His comic has been up for about thirty minutes when he gets two text messages.

The first is from Dad: _Issue twelve was so good! They are all so good! I was so happy that superwolf saved his brother. You did a good job. Your bosses will see this will make a good tv show too. So proud of my hijo! Te quiero_

Sean yawns and his thumb feels heavy as he texts back: _Gracias y_ _te queiro tambien papa_

The second text is from Mom: _That isn't what I thought would happen but it was still good though._

He sends back: _Thanks. See you next week for Daniels graduation?_

_Yes of course_, she replies.

He sets his phone on his chest, and closes his eyes. Someone is screaming in the movie, but he barely hears it. He has two parents who are proud of him and his work. That's pretty good.

"I deserve the good things in my life," he whispers. "And they are not going to be taken away from me."

# # #

**1:15 AM**

Though he is deep in a pit of slumber, Sean feels his phone vibrate against his chest. The steady thrum brings him close enough to the world of the waking that he can hit Ignore on the call without opening his eyes.

However, the phone rings a second time. So he hits Ignore again.

The third time actually wakes him. He finally answers, and since it's Facetime, his brother's face floats onto the phone screen. Daniel's hair is wet, and his shoulders are bare like he has just gotten out of the shower.

"It's the middle of the night," Sean mutters. "What's wrong, _enano_?"

"It's _Friday_, Sean," Daniel laughs. "Why are you already in bed like an old man?" Daniel puts on a mock pout. "I waited all day to talk to my big brother, but I guess he doesn't want to talk to me because he's too sleepy. I guess I'll go because he doesn't care about me—me, his only brother in the whole world."

"You are such a little asshole," Sean says groggily.

"I learned it from the biggest one I know." Daniel grins. "But, seriously, I'm sorry it's so late. I went riding around with Noah, and we met up with some people. All the parties are next week after for-real graduation, but a bunch of people were getting together to say 'goodbye forever' to high school. But I know you had a long day. I saw your comic went up just before midnight—which, Mom _and_ Dad both already have 'theories' they want to talk to me about. So I get that you're tired. We can talk tomorrow if that's better."

"No, I'm up," Sean yawns, setting his feet on the floor. He digs his knuckle into his eye. "I'm going to talk to my tattoo guy tomorrow about setting up an appointment for when you're down here."

"Hells yeah," Daniel says, and he holds out his phone so he can point to the skin on his chest. "First ink. Right here. Wolf family from two Christmases ago. _Finally_."

"It's going to look sick, dude," Sean says. Stuck to the wall above his desk, he has a bunch of photos he printed out at Target. They're of him and his friends. Of his dad and brother. Of his mom. Among them is the photo he and Daniel took on their road trip, the two of them shirtless and flexing in the mirror of a public restroom; Daniel has the wolf tattoo that Sean sharpied onto his chest. "So did you talk to Anna?"

Daniel groans. "No, I wussed out."

"Oh my god, no wonder you liked Hawt Dawg Man so much as a kid . . . because you are _the_ biggest wiener," Sean laughs. Daniel has had a _huge_ crush on this girl Anna for the last chunk of his senior year, but he burned a lot of time angsting about it. He was like, _"Dude, I mostly like guys—what if I ask her out and I'm just, like, wasting her time?"_ After a couple of weeks, Sean pointed out that she was all Daniel talked about so, all other sexual-orientation stuff aside, he was clearly into her. And now Daniel has spent weeks making up excuses for why she would reject him even though this girl went out of her way to talk to him every morning before school.

"I know, I know," Daniel sighs. "I'm pathetic. That's why she would never go out with me."

"No, she is never going out with you because you didn't ask," Sean says. "Okay, we have _two_ things to practice when you're down here for a week. The first is that we definitely have to work on your game. We're gonna, like, go to a mall or something, and you have to go up to five people about your age and either ask them for their number or if they want to go on a date with you."

Daniel's face and shoulders redden. "Oh my god please don't make me do that."

"It'll be a growth opportunity for you," Sean says. "Also . . . we need to practice your powers."

Daniel rolls his eyes. "Do we?"

"Yes, little brother, we do." Sean uses his finger to lift up the poster of _lucha libre_ superstars Pentagón Jr_._ and Rey Fénix, The LuchaBrothers, he got at a AAA show he went to with his dad. Behind it is a hole in the drywall about the size of Sean's chest that Daniel's powers accidentally made with a pop can last time he visited

"I still have nightmares about that deer," Daniel says quietly.

"I know," Sean says. "But something that I've learned in therapy is that you can't keep running from the things you're scared of."

"I don't get what the big deal is. I know you think something bad could happen, but the only times things blow up or go haywire is when I _use_ my powers," Daniel says. "It's obvious I should just pretend they don't exist. Go on about things like everything is normal, and then they will be."

Sean chews on his lip. This is an ongoing argument between him and his brother. They get along well these days, but they have screamed at each other over this. It's been two years, and with his powers, Daniel can barely lift a little more than he could bicep-curl with his scrawny little arms. In the other life, Daniel could almost hurl mountains.. Daniel still gets headaches. They aren't as frequent or as intense, but Sean is convinced they are a sign that a pressure is building in his brother's brain, that a bomb is about to go off.

"It doesn't hurt to practice," Sean says gently. "It's not good for you to be scared of something you can do, you know? I just want you to be okay."

"I know, Sean," Daniel says quietly. "I get that you are only looking out for me. It's like . . . your soul reason to exist, sometimes."

That stops their conversation like a car that has run out of gas.

"Hey, it is pretty late," Sean says. "I'll talk to you later this weekend if you want. And I'll see you next week for sure, okay?"

"Sure thing."

"Love you, _enano_."

"Love you too, bubba."

"'Bubba'?" Sean raises an eyebrow.

"Look, you have called me 'little dwarf' in Spanish my whole life," Daniel says. "I should have a dumb, derogatory nickname for you too."

"Yeah, but 'bubba'?" Sean says. "We're not hillbillies, dude. We're not that annoying tow truck from the _Cars_ movies."

"It's a work in progress, okay?" Daniel laughs. "Be glad I'm not going with Doucheface McAssHead."

When they finally hang up, Sean is very tired . . . but smiling. Daniel is definitely one of the good things in his life.

And he deserves good things, right? And those good things won't be taken from him.

As Sean's phone screen's glow dims, he takes out his father's Puerto Lobos lighter from a desk drawer that also has the weed pipe he's had since high school and the sketchbook with all the memories from his other life. He opens and closes the lighter as he sits down on his bed and wakes up his laptop. On the desktop screen is a folder he's labeled _Lone Wolf_. He wasn't sure what to call it. And he didn't want to give it a descriptive-enough name that someone would click into it.

Inside the folder are dozens of PDFs and .html files he has saved from websites. Most of it are the contents of Brody's blog.

But there is also Brody's obituary.

And Chris Eriksen's.

He has the article about Finn and his brothers going to jail, but Sean has never been able to confirm that Finn or Cassidy died under the train in Beaver Creek. He does have the article about it. It still stings how coldly it reports the death of two transients.

He also has a piece from a Nevada newspaper about the storm that sprang up while he and Daniel were in Away two years ago. Before it reached Arizona, the storm tore through Nevada—and the Universal Uprising Church in Haven Point.

A young man and a little girl were inside when the building collapsed—Jacob and his little sister.

And this is the problem with telling Dr. Martinez about the ghosts in his past—Sean cannot tell her about the demons in his present. All of these people were good things in his life. They helped him and his brother when it was hard to help them, when he and Daniel needed it the most. They were bright lights in a dark, shitshow of a world that have now been snuffed out.

All of them are dead because of a choice he made.

A choice that he could unmake at any time.

And the fact that he doesn't fix things makes him wonder . . . does he really deserve the good things in his life?

Would it really be wrong if they all got taken away?

* * *

_well this is just a simple song_

_to say what you done_

_i told you about all those fears_

_and away they did run_

_you sure must be strong_

_. . . _

_i know that things can really get rough when you go it alone_

_don't go thinking you gotta be tough to play like a stone_

_could be theres nothing else in our lives so critical_

_as this little hole_

.


	36. Episode Four: The Storm - Chapter Three

_Seattle, Washington_

_December 2017_

_In the timeline where Esteban Diaz never died_

_Eight months before Daniel Diaz's brother starts art school in Savannah, Georgia_

Ten-year-old Daniel Diaz stands in his kitchen, cold chili seeping into his socks and sopping his shirt so it sticks against his chest. He feels like curling into a ball and disappearing forever.

His brother has already stomped downstairs, angry at him, which is how Sean always is these days.

Daniel pulls his shirt over his head and undoes his chili-soaked pants, and his body feels cold with shame. Not because he's getting naked in a kitchen. Like, that _is_ humiliating, but on days when it's hot and Dad still won't run the air conditioner, he and his brother will spend most of their day in their underwear, so it's not _that_ big of a deal.

The real embarrassment comes from the fact that he's getting older, and though he is still a kid and can't quite put it into words, he is starting to understand the world. And he has a sense, this vague notion, that his dad and brother have to work a lot harder simply because he exists.

That Daniel Diaz makes everything worse.

He steps out of his underwear and socks and covers himself with his hands as he slumps towards the bathroom. He turns on the shower but ends up sitting down in the tub. He takes showers exclusively now because he's a big kid; he hasn't taken a bath in months because baths are for babies. However, there is still an old Hawt Dawg Man toy he got from a Happy Meal lying next to a thin bar of soap that has a single, curly hair stuck to it. He picks up the toy, sort of walks it across his bare knees.

With the chili, he was trying to do something nice. He overheard Sean's argument with their father last night, about how "Daniel is almost eleven but still can't take care of himself." So he was going to fix lunch for the two of them, show that he can be responsible. Show that he's not just a little brat.

Instead, he messed everything up.

Daniel presses his foot over the drain, and the tub starts to fill. He's seen pictures of when he was a baby and Sean was a little kid. Sometimes they would take baths together. There's a video of Sean washing baby Daniel's hair, being extra careful to not get soap in the little brother's eyes. Daniel can't remember any of that. And, like, obviously he doesn't want to take baths with his brother. That would be weird.

But sometimes it's hard to think that Sean would _ever_ have done something like that.

Sean is so busy these days. He's busy with school and track. He's busy with his friends and his job. And next year, he's going to college. Daniel hasn't fully wrapped his head around what that means, but deep down, he knows that Sean won't be across the hall anymore.

Sean's rarely across the hall now.

So Daniel wanted to be nice. He wanted to make lunch for them, and then maybe they could eat it and watch the latest _Avengers_ movie. And then maybe they would play _Guitar Fighter_ or with Daniel's Power Bear toys. Maybe they would color or wrestle or build with Legos or do any of the things that they used to do before Sean got "too busy" and Daniel became something that only got on his older brother's nerves.

He isn't sure how long he sits there. It feels like a long time, like a whole hour or something, but the water is barely over his toes. He stands up, the water rushes down the drain, and he ends up using Sean's bodywash to scrub the chili off his skin. Beans and ground beef fall from his hair. When he's done, he turns off the water, dries himself, and wraps his towel around his waist.

A pile of towels lies on the floor when he steps out of the bathroom. And when he peers around the corner, the pool of chili is still there. Sean was all like "You can't help! You'll make it worse!" but Sean hasn't done _anything_. In fact, he's standing at the kitchen counter wearing his shoes, which have tracked in snow that is melting into muddy water onto their carpet.

Daniel stomps up to him, ready to yell about Sean being a jerk _and_ a butthead . . . but his brother is just standing there. Holding a letter with this weird stare.

"Uh, Sean, are you okay?" Daniel asks.

"Hmm?" Sean looks up. "Oh, I'm fine, Daniel. I got a letter from SCAD. It's one of the art schools I applied to."

"That's cool!" Daniel says, suddenly excited like Sean is holding a Christmas present. "Did they accept you? They accepted you, didn't they!"

"I don't know," Sean says quietly. "I, uh, haven't opened it."

"Why not? I always open all my mail as soon as I get it. Sometimes it's birthday cards with money in them."

"Who sends you birthday cards with money? We don't know anyone who would send us birthday cards—definitely not with money in them." Sean glares at him, and Daniel thinks his brother might yell. But instead, Sean suddenly looks sad, like when a best friend moves away. "I think I'm scared to open this."

"How can you be scared to open a letter?" Daniel asks. "Is it like one of those howlers from _Harry Potter_?"

"My future, everything, could be inside this envelope." Then Sean does something odd. He sets a hand on Daniel's neck. "It's probably hard for you to understand, _enano_, because you have, like, so much of your life still ahead of you. But this could be it for me. Yes or no, this could determine everything. It doesn't seem like one moment, something so small, should decide the rest of your life."

"Well," Daniel says slowly, "if you're scared, do you want me to open it for you? I think if someone gave me a letter that told me the rest of my life, I would want to know what's inside right away."

"Nah, I think I'm going to wait for Dad to get home," Sean says. Then, for whatever reason, Sean pulls him into an awkward side hug. And there's something about the way Sean sighs that makes Daniel realize he should hug his big brother for real.

But then Sean sniffs the air. "Dude, did you use my body wash? What the hell, man? Is this why I'm always running out?"

"I couldn't use the bar soap because it had one of your pubes on it," Daniel says.

"I don't use the bar soap," Sean says. "It must have been one of Dad's pubes."

"Gross!" Daniel shudders, like long-legged spiders are crawling up his throat, and his brother laughs.

"Hey, go put on some pants then get a bucket from downstairs. You can help me clean up this mess, and it'll probably get done faster if we do it together," Sean says. "Then I can make us some dope-ass grilled cheese. Sound good?"

"Yeah, Sean," Daniel says. "Sounds good."

# # #

_Beaver Creek, Oregon_

_December 2017_

_In the timeline where Esteban Diaz was shot_

_Eight months before Daniel Diaz's brother is transferred to Washington State Penitentiary _

On this same day, in the life where Daniel's older brother turned himself in at the border, Daniel's grandfather takes him to the library to rent movies. It's the first day of winter break, and his grandparents insisted he have his best friend Chris spend the night.

"It'll be fun to have a boys' night," Grandma Claire said.

"I'll even get you some bourbon and cigars," Grandpa Stephen joked, even though Grandma Claire did not laugh.

Winter break is a relief. School at Beaver Creek Intermediate has been . . . rough. He's the new kid at a small school. And he's the "dumb" kid. He missed all of fourth grade last year, and he should have been held back. But they stuck him in fifth grade for social reasons, and he doesn't understand _anything_. Grandma Claire makes him do tutoring for two hours after school every day, and it sucks so hard.

The selection of DVDs at the Beaver Creek Public Library is pretty good, though. Daniel picks up _Guardians of the Galaxy 2_ and _Spider-Man: Homecoming_. He would always watch the Marvel movies on opening night with Dad and Sean, but he missed these last year because . . .

. . . yeah . . .

In one of the rows of films, almost hidden, he finds a faded, dull-gray DVD case. It's _The Ring_. Dad let him and Sean watch this when they were _way_ too young. It scared Daniel pretty bad. He slept in Sean's room for a week.

"Can I get these?" Daniel asks, handing his grandfather the movies.

"We can get whatever you want, kiddo," Grandpa Stephen says. He holds up the copy of _The Ring._ "Maybe don't tell your grandmother about this one, okay?"

# # #

That evening, Chris comes over after dinner with this totally, wicked-cool Lego set. Like, it's got ninjas and wizards _and_ superheroes. And it's kind of this huge fortress, and you can build, like, three different spaceships for the Lego people to sit in. It is so awesome. They put it together on the floor of Daniel's bedroom, and when his grandmother brings them a second round of snacks, he realizes they have spent _three whole hours_ on this. But when it's done, it is _so_ epic.

Daniel claims one of the Lego men as Superwolf, and Chris chooses one to be Captain Spirit. And they begin an incredible struggle between good and evil that spans galaxies and dimensions.

Daniel floats part of the fortress above their heads with his powers. Captain Spirit and Superwolf stand atop it, facing their villain Greed Lord. In the rest of the set below, the Lego people don't know that their lives are in peril.

"Superwolf and Captain Spirit, this is why only fools are heroes—because you never know when some lunatic will come along with a sadistic choice!" Chris says, ripping off that Spider-Man movie that's on TV all the time to be the voice of their villain. "My nuclear-powered doom ray is set to destroy the city below—" Chris gestures to the Lego set at their feet "—but if you save them, you let me go to detonate the bomb in the skyscraper full of orphans being reunited with their parents!" And Chris gestures at the stack of books they've piled at the side of the room. "You can't save them both! Captain Spirit and Superwolf, you must choose! Whose lives are more important? Who do you save?"

And Daniel points, chest out, hand on his hip. Imagines a cape flowing behind him. "We say nuts to your sadistic choice, Greed Lord—Captain Spirit and Superwolf save them both!"

Thus begins the final showdown between the heroes and villain, and Chris and Daniel jump around and laugh so hard . . . that they accidentally knock down the tower of books.

"Oh no," Chris says, like it's a real building that has collapsed. "There goes the orphans. I guess we couldn't save both of them."

"Man, that stinks," Daniel says, slumping to the floor like his bones have disappeared. "Captain Spirit and Superwolf did everything right."

He isn't sure why, but he is really upset they didn't save the imaginary orphans.

"Hold on, Superwolf!" Chris says, his voice suddenly deepening. "You're forgetting that I still have my recombobulator ray! We can still save the orphans!"

And together, the two of them rebuild the book tower. And the world's greatest super team—Captain Spirit and Superwolf—save the day.

It makes Daniel feel a lot better.

Sometimes he wishes the world actually worked this way, let you go back, make different choices. Change things.

But it doesn't. Even with superpowers, sometimes you can't save everybody.

# # #

With evil defeated, Chris and Daniel go downstairs to watch movies. After Claire and Stephen go to bed, Daniel puts in _The Ring,_ but they only make it thirty minutes before Chris gets too scared. Daniel tells him it's okay, and Chris is grateful that Daniel doesn't make fun of him.

But it's weird. Daniel remembers being _terrified_ of this movie when he was younger.

Now, it doesn't seem like anything.

# # #

In the morning, Daniel wakes up on one end of the couch; Chris sleeps on the other, mouth hanging open, curled up in a ball so their feet aren't even touching. Daniel doesn't remember falling asleep, but one of his grandparents must have put this blanket over him and turned off the television.

There's a clinking behind him in the kitchen where Grandma Claire is setting up a mixing bowl and a skillet for breakfast, so Daniel rolls off the couch and heads to the counter to sit down. She tells him good morning. And gently makes fun of his bed head. He's still tired, so he only smiles sleepily.

"Oh dear," Grandma Claire says, peering into the jar where she keeps her flour. "Daniel, my extra bag of flour is up in the cabinet. I usually have your grandfather get it down, but do you think you could reach it for me?"

"I got you, Grandma," he says, and he points his hand at the cabinet. The door opens, and a bag of flour floats down into his grandmother's hands.

"Thank you, sweetheart," she says as she tears open the bag and refills the jar. "How was boys' night with Chris?"

"It was . . . really awesome. Best night in forever," Daniel says.

And then he sighs.

"What was that sigh for?" Grandma Claire asks.

At first he shrugs. But she hits him with this heavy-yet-gentle stare that she won't break, so he says, "I didn't say goodnight to Sean." She still doesn't say anything, so he goes on. "When we were on the run, Sean and I always slept next to each other. So I'd tell him goodnight every night. And when I moved in here . . . I didn't stop. I know it's dumb. I know he can't hear me. But I do it, I always do it . . . except for last night."

"Daniel, that's okay," Grandma Claire says gently. "You were busy. You were having fun with your friend."

"Sean doesn't get to have fun with his friends. He's in juvie."

"Hey, don't do this," Grandma Claire says, and she pats the flour off her hands so she can come around and hug him. "You're not doing anyone any good by feeling guilty about enjoying your life. I bet Sean will be so happy to hear you had a fun night with your friend when he calls on Wednesday."

"I guess," Daniel says, staring down at the floor.

He's ten years old, and he has been through more than most adults. Seen more in the last year than he had in the entire rest of his life put together. But he still doesn't quite have the words to express the idea that is forming in his head, an idea that he will bring up to his grandmother five years from now when they are driving home from visiting Sean in prison and a semi-truck careens out of control on the road ahead of them.

It's the idea that Sean deserves good things too . . . so why is it good for Sean to sacrifice everything when he, Daniel, has to sacrifice nothing?


	37. Episode Four: The Storm - Chapter Four

_Seattle, Washington_

_June 2025_

_Two years after Sean and Daniel's road trip to meet their mother_

Tonight is graduation. The end of the beginning. The beginning of the end. An overhyped ceremony that Daniel is pretty sure will be the least-cool part of finishing high school.

According to society, he's an adult now. A man. Yet, he stands in front of his bathroom mirror losing a war to the necktie that he keeps tying and retying but screws up so much it fucking hangs there over his chest like it's a huge, limp dick.

"God _dammit_," he mutters to the YouTube tutorial on his phone then stomps out of the bathroom. His brother sits at the kitchen table working on a tablet and a laptop. "Sean, do you know where Dad is?"

"Down in the garage," Sean says, not looking up. "Want me to get him?"

"Maybe, unless . . . can you tie a necktie?"

Sean raises his head, sees the necktie wrapped terribly around Daniel's neck, and laughs. "Dude, you look like a snake was trying to pop a pimple. How did you do that so badly?"

"When would I ever dress up? I've never had to do this before," Daniel says. It's not like they go to church. And it's not like he went to academic or athletic award nights like Sean. In fact, two days ago, after Dad took him to the barber for a fresh cut, they went to the mall for dress clothes because everything Daniel owns is in the t-shirt-and-joggers genre.

"Give it here, _enano_," Sean says, and Daniel leans down so his brother can untangle the tie. They go to Daniel's bedroom where Sean stands behind him in front of the mirror. Sean tells him to use shirt buttons to gauge the length, and occasionally, Daniel feels Sean's hands over his, guiding them, helping him through the complicated knot.

When he's done, he looks like a sharp-dressed dude instead of a meatball wrapped in spaghetti.

"Hang on," Daniel says. "This look isn't complete."

He takes the graduation robe from his bed, slides his arms through it, and pulls it over him. Then he balances the square cap on his head. He turns around, holds his arms out in a kind of _T-_pose. "Think this looks good enough for a diploma?"

"Yeah, Daniel, I think so," Sean says, his smile shaky. Then he sniffles. "I'm really proud of you, _enano_. Like . . . really, _really_ proud."

"I know, you big emo kid," Daniel says. "You've only told me, like, thirty times. I get it, it's a big deal, but it's not _that_ big of a deal. I know I'm not as smart as you, but I'm not a _total_ dumbass. I'd have to fuck up pretty hard to not graduate high school."

"Ha." Sean tries to hide his eyes by looking around the room. "I guess you would."

"Okay," Daniel says, "what's wrong?"

"It's nothing." Sean shakes his head. "I'm fine."

The robe rustles as Daniel crosses his arms over his chest. "Don't lie, man."

Sean shrugs. "It's your big day. I don't want to bring it down."

"You'll bring it down more if I have to worry about what's wrong. Talk to me, bro."

"I guess I fucked up pretty hard," Sean sighs. "Because I didn't graduate high school."

"Hey, whoa, don't do that. I know you are talking about time travel stuff," Daniel says. "But I promise you that you _definitely_ graduated high school. I had to sit through your ceremony. It was long. And boring. And my phone died, like, right when we got there, so I couldn't even play _Fortnite_."

"I'm aware of my graduation," Sean says. "I kind of have . . . two sets of memories about things, and sometimes certain memories are loud, drowning others out. Like, if I think really hard, I can remember graduation and the party we had at Adam's house and some shit that went down with Ellery . . . but the memory that is much, _much_ stronger is sitting in juvie, hugging the pillow on my cot and knowing that Lyla and Ellery and everyone were graduating without me. And that the only thing I had to look forward to was getting moved to for-real adult prison in a few months."

Sean doesn't do this so much anymore, let that old life creep in, suddenly look like a broken, one-eyed boy who has lost everything. Whenever this happens, it always breaks Daniel's heart, shatters it into a dozen pieces.

Pieces that are always glued back together with guilt.

He doesn't want Sean to be broken.

He doesn't want his brother to have ever been broken.

Sean laughs sadly. "I don't know why bad memories are so much louder than happy ones. You know I can't even remember getting my acceptance letter to SCAD? Obviously, it must have happened. It must have been a huge deal. But I have zero recollection of it."

"Oh, I remember that day," Daniel says. "I spilled a whole pot of chili on the floor, and I thought for sure you were going to murder me . . . but instead, you ended up being pretty cool. We hung out and played videogames all afternoon. It was one of the few good days we had together back then."

"Do you remember me opening my letter?" Sean asks.

Daniel shakes his head. "You wanted to wait until Dad got home. And when he did, you both went to your room with the door closed for a while. I have no idea what you talked about."

"Oh."

"Hey," Daniel says, setting his hand on his big brother's shoulder, "I know that two years ago, finding that guy on the side of the road shook you . . . but, dude, you have to know that was just a coincidence, right? Look, I'll deny saying this, but you are like the hardest working, best guy a kid could have as a brother to look up to. Why would the universe ever want to punish its best dude?"

"Life isn't fair, _enano_," Sean says.

"But life isn't out to get you, either. That old life is not coming for you, Sean. If it was, something would have happened by now. And if it does, I'll kick its ass. I'll save you. I'm a goddamn superwolf."

"A superwolf who is going to practice his powers next week," Sean says.

"Can we not get into this, please?" Daniel says. He hates this argument so much. "It's my 'special day.' Can I please just focus on graduation?"

# # #

Actual graduation sucks.

Daniel sits in an ass-numbing folding chair on his high school's football field. The robe acts as a plastic greenhouse over his body, and as the sun beats down, his dress shirt and pants become swimming pools of perspiration. A bead of sweat trickles over his spine, sneaks into his underwear, and slides over his butt like it's a funhouse ride.

And it's _so long_. Like, does _everyone_ in his class need to give a speech or sing a song? He actually wishes he could play _Fortnite_ at his own graduation more than he did when he was an eleven-year-old at Sean's.

But this is fine. This is okay. This is, like, a toll he has to pay for the best week of his life.

After this, it's dinner with his family. And then the party Noah has talked him into. His for-real graduation party for his family is tomorrow, and then, all next week, it's Los Angeles with Sean.

Some of his friends are flying down to Florida as a senior trip. They think he is crazy for wanting to spend a week sleeping on a shitty futon in an apartment about the size of a cardboard box with a broken air conditioner.

But he is way more excited about his week in LA than he is about finishing high school.

Hanging out with his brother. Getting his tattoo. It's going to be awesome.

Finally, the first row of students stand to approach the stage to get their diplomas. A combination of relief and excitement moves through the robed graduates sitting on the field, and Noah leans over and says, "This is it, man. We made it through high school." He holds out a fist.

"We did," Daniel says, touching it with his.

"I couldn't have done this without you. I'm sorry I was a dick for a while."

"It's whatever," Daniel says, hitting his best friend on the shoulder. "I'm just glad we're cool now."

When his row stands to line up at the stage, Daniel scans the crowd. His family sits near the middle of the bleachers, and Daniel cannot imagine how awkward it must be. Dad has interacted with Claire and Stephen a few times since the road trip; Daniel has spent weekends with his grandparents that forced his dad to coordinate with them on a pickup and drop-off point between Beaver Creek and Seattle. But they haven't actually spent time together.

And then there's Mom. She sits next to Sean and as far as she can from everyone else. Claire still does not like even talking about her, even though Daniel has pushed her to write a letter. But it's not like Mom has reached out either. And, sure, Dad talked to Mom a couple of weeks ago to assure her she could come up for graduation, but he will not say what they talked about—which totally means it was awkward.

But all of them are here. And that's what matters.

"Oh no," Daniel gasps as he gets closer to the stage.

"What's wrong?" Noah says.

"My dad and brother brought signs." Daniel rode with them. They must have pre-stashed the giant sheets of poster board in the trunk. Dad's says: **Proud of You, Hijo! **and Sean's says: **Daniel Diaz = Most Okayest Graduate**. When the announcer calls "Daniel Felipe Diaz" onto the stage, Daniel's father and brother holler, hoot, and even chant his name. Claire hangs her head and Mom looks away, but Stephen joins in.

Daniel blushes as he takes his diploma and shakes his principal's hand. He waves to his family, hoping the acknowledgement will quiet them. Instead, Dad and Sean whoop louder. Daniel absolutely wants to die. Why do his two favorite people have to be so cringey?

When everyone has crossed the stage, it's time to throw their caps. The conversations with Sean are on his mind, and on impulse, Daniel activates his powers. Concentrates on pushing his cap into the air. He only means to send it an extra couple of feet; instead, it shoots a full story into the sky then rockets into the stands like a missile.

A group of parents scream and dive out of the way. And Sean glares from the bleachers as all Daniel can do is shrug.

# # #

In the car after commencement, Daniel takes so much shit from Sean for choosing Applebee's for his post-graduation dinner.

"Rule Number One for LA next week: No Chain Restaurants," Sean says from the backseat (his "graduation gift" to Daniel was giving up shotgun). "We have to get you some culture, man."

"Last time, you took me to a place that served ramen," Daniel says. "That's poor-people food."

"It was _gourmet_ ramen."

"Sorry, it was _gourmet_ poor-people food."

"I do not see how something I can make for thirty cents can be 'gourmet'," Dad says as he takes the car around a corner. "Besides, Applebee's has gourmet mozzarella sticks."

"Oh my god." Sean sounds like his brain might explode. "You both live in one of the most diverse cities in America. How can my father and brother be this uncultured?"

"I'm cultured," Daniel says. "_The Iron Giant_ is the best animated movie. That dude you told me about who painted the melting clocks is the best artist. And Taco Bell is the best Mexican food."

Sean boos like a rowdy soccer crowd, and even Dad goes off with how dare his son, his own flesh and blood, speak such blasphemy and violate the sanctity of their car no less? Daniel laughs so hard that his ribs hurt, and he almost misses his phone vibrating. When he checks the message, his eyes open wide. "Oh my god. Noah says Anna Huynh is coming to the party tonight."

"Ooh, who is Anna Huynh?" Dad asks as the car stops at an intersection.

And Daniel's cheeks burn as red as the traffic light as Sean gleefully fills Dad in on how Anna Huynh is the girl Daniel has had a _huge_ crush on ever since their dates ignored them and they talked all night at prom. "But Daniel still hasn't asked her out even though she is totally into him because he has, like, zero balls," Sean says. "Have you texted her yet?"

"No . . ." Daniel says. "Am I supposed to? What do I say?"

"Give me your phone." Sean holds out his hand. "I'm a great wingman. I'll run your game for you."

"You're not just going to send her a bunch of eggplant emojis or something gross, right?" Daniel asks. When Sean _promises_ that he won't, when he crosses his heart, Daniel hands the phone over. Sean types something quickly into it, and when he passes it back, Daniel reads: _Hey you going to the party tonight? Would be awesome to see you there._

"Dude, I could have said that," Daniel says.

"But you didn't," Sean says. "Trust me, dude, this will work. I have it on good authority from a love witch."

The light turns green, and the car moves forward, which, much to Daniel's dismay, means Dad totally misses the opportunity to grill Sean on why he is hanging out with "love witches." Instead, Dad says, "So, Daniel, do you need me to give you _the_ talk? The birds and the bees, everything about how _S-E-X_ works?"

"I think I'm good," Daniel says.

"I know it can be uncomfortable to talk to your old man about sex, but it is important we talk about this if you have any questions about what sex is or how it works," Dad says.

"Please stop," Daniel says.

"This is serious, _mijo_. Do you know that you need to be safe? Do you have a condom? Do you need money for condoms? Do you know how to put on a condom?"

"Oh my god, Dad, I graduated, like, thirty minutes ago. My life is just starting, but I will literally die if you keep talking."

The whole time, Sean is losing his shit in the backseat laughing.

# # #

Dinner is surprisingly chill. Daniel isn't sure if everyone is actually getting along or acting on their best behavior for him, but it's kind of awesome to have his whole family together. He loves Dad and Sean, obviously, but Noah would always talk about these big family gatherings with aunts and uncles and cousins, and Daniel has never had a Thanksgiving or a Christmas or even a birthday with more than two other people.

Mom is kind of quiet. And everyone talks to Daniel and his brother instead of each other. But, overall, it's good.

Sean has a lot of great stories about Nickelodeon, and everyone is impressed that he pitched the _Superwolf_ comic as a show. He's downplaying what a big deal that is—assuring all of them that, no, he is not going to be famous and definitely not rich—when Daniel feels his phone vibrate.

It's a message from Anna: _Would be cool to see you at the party too_

Daniel's grin is so huge that he expects someone will pick up on it and give his dad another chance to uncomfortably talk about condoms. But everyone is too enthralled with Sean talking about designing cans of beans. Stephen really likes the fart jokes.

Claire, Stephen, and Dad get into a discussion about gas prices, and Daniel nudges Sean and shows him the message.

"Excuse us," Sean says, standing from the table. "Daniel and I will be right back."

"Where are you two going?" Mom asks.

"We just have some brother stuff to do," he says.

Daniel isn't even done with his dinner yet, nor does he know what "brother stuff' could be, but he follows Sean to the side of the restaurant where they slide outside to stand on the sidewalk in the pleasant summer air.

Sean reaches into his wallet. And he hands Daniel something wrapped in foil.

"You were carrying a condom?" Daniel asks, turning it over in his hand. "What were you thinking was going to happen at my graduation party?"

"Look, Daniel, you should have that just in case. You don't have to have sex if you don't want to, but if you do have sex, you need to be safe, okay?" Sean says. "I know talking to Dad about this is embarrassing, and we were giving you a hard time . . . but no jokes, no bullshit—do you have any questions?"

"I'm okay."

"Is that true?"

Again, Daniel insists that he doesn't, but Sean can totally see through him, so he finally sighs and gives in. "What if I'm, um, bad at it?"

"Well, _enano_, the chances are you won't be _great_ at it. But everyone's bad at stuff the first time they do it. It will go a lot better, though, if you relax, go kind of slow, and focus on how it makes you feel good. Don't worry about if you're doing a good job, whatever that means."

If he and Anna hook up—and that is a pretty big _if_—it will be the first time Daniel has done things with someone besides whatever you call what he and Noah did in tenth grade. "But if Anna and I do stuff, I want her to enjoy it, you know? She should feel good too, right? So if I'm bad at it . . . she won't have a good time with it, will she?"

Sean chews on his lip for a moment. "Well, I'm going to be upfront with you, okay?" And then Sean tells Daniel some things that he can do. With his hands. With his mouth. They are things that Daniel knows about, has seen in videos, but isn't sure exactly how to do. And this conversation could be uncomfortable, but Sean doesn't tease him when he asks questions. Sean doesn't make him feel stupid for not already knowing this. This isn't treated like a joke.

And it does make Daniel feel better. Safer. More prepared.

And it fills Daniel's heart with warmth for his brother. This guy who helps him tie neckties and explains sex to him. This dude who, in another life, gave up his future of having his dream job, who gave up his freedom, who gave up his entire life just for some little asshole with a 2.9 GPA that is going to community college in the fall. Like, it is amazing that Claire and Stephen and Mom and Dad can all put their shit aside and be here for him, but he has no idea why someone would care about him enough to cross half the country and two timelines for him.

Daniel is pretty sure he isn't worth it. But he's also pretty sure Sean loves him anyway.

Daniel throws his arms around his brother. It takes Sean a moment to regain his balance, and Daniel feels Sean's arms around him.

"Sean," Daniel says, hugging his brother tighter, "when we get to Los Angeles, I'm going to practice my powers so hard. I'll practice every day if you want me to."

"It's okay, _enano_," Sean says gently. "I only want you to be comfortable with them. And safe."

"But I know you are scared that the other life could come back for you. You told me about a storm. And I need to practice. So I can stop it. I need to be strong enough to save you."


	38. Episode Four: The Storm - Chapter Five

After dinner, Sean takes Dad's car to drop Daniel off at the party then goes to the motel where Mom is staying. It's not the _worst_ place ever—nothing is the worst place ever after being homeless—but the two guys exchanging money in the parking lot is probably a drug deal.

Sean knocks on Mom's door, and when it opens, she seems surprised. "You know you could text before you show up sometimes."

Sean chuckles. "So . . . my brother is at a party, and my grandparents go to bed, like, ridiculously early. So I was wondering if you wanted to hang out."

"What about your father?" Mom asks.

"He's pretty responsible, so he'll probably be fine without me or Daniel to supervise him for a few hours," Sean says. "Come on, this is the first time my mom has been in Seattle since I was seven, so I thought she might let me take her to get frozen yogurt."

Mom crosses her arms, looks down at her toes curling against the paper-thin carpet. Her short hair brushes her ears, and Sean thinks she smiles. "We used to get frozen yogurt after your little-league soccer practices."

"And I don't know if you know this, but I was kind of a hot-shot track star in high school, and I had a _lot_ of practices where I didn't get frozen yogurt. And I kept a tab with interest, and if you are ever going to pay off this frozen yogurt debt, we have to start now." He taps his finger against his wrist as if he's wearing a watch.

"God, you have the same obnoxious charm as your father." Mom is hard to read, but Sean is fairly certain she isn't _that_ annoyed. "Let me get my shoes."

Sean sits on the hood of his dad's car and uses his phone to check in on his and work email. No word yet on if the executives are going to ask for a _Superwolf_ pilot. When he hears the motel room door close, he sees his mom standing kind of stunned on the sidewalk.

"Sorry, you just look so much like Esteban and leaning on _that_ car . . ." She shakes her head, as if she can loosen a memory from her brain. "Do you know how many times I'd walk outside to see him sitting on the hood of his car, waiting to take me on some grand adventure? I had a moment there where it was like I had walked through the door and stepped backwards in time."

"Well," Sean says as they climb into the car, "it's not like anyone can _really_ go back in time."

# # #

At the Frozen Yogurt Pagoda, Mom gets a cup of lemon swirl with a conservative amount of sprinkles. Sean gets a combination of chocolate and strawberry, which he loads with caramel pieces, chocolate syrup, and gummy worms. He's actually been on a health food kick out in LA, but being here with Mom reverts him to being an elementary-school kid, and he gets the Seven-Year-Old Sean Diaz Sugar-Coma Special.

At the register, Sean insists he pay. And since the tables are packed with families in town for graduation, they head to the park, specifically the section with the obstacles and ramps for skateboarders. Sean and his mom sit on a bench, and a couple of teenagers clatter their boards, landing sloppy ollies that make Sean cringe. He hasn't skated in a couple of years, but it's obvious everything they are doing is wrong.

They're just kids, though. They'll get it eventually.

"Hey, you remember that day you took me out here and that middle schooler was picking on me?" Sean asks after he swallows a mouthful of yogurt, sending a gummy worm wriggling down his throat. "You went up to him, told him that some 'ugly little punk with crooked eyes' shouldn't pick on little kids. You made him cry."

Mom spins her spoon so the yogurt spirals up into a point. "Probably a clear sign I wasn't cut out to be a parent."

"Are you kidding?" Sean says. "That was _awesome_ parenting! Dad never made a kid cry for me."

Their plastic spoons scrape the bottom of the paper cups, digging for the last sprinkles and candy pieces. Sean snickers as one of the skateboarders nearly splits his taint on an incomplete kickflip, but other than that, he sits there quietly enjoying eating frozen yogurt with his mom for the first time since he was a little kid.

"So you kind of bounced real quick after dinner," Sean says and licks the last bit of chocolate syrup off his spoon.

"It was for the best," Mom says. "Things got uncomfortable when you and Daniel were gone for so long. You could tell everyone would have been better off without me there."

"Sorry we bailed. Daniel has this girl he's trying to hook up with, and I had to talk him through some things," Sean says. He taps his spoon against the front of his teeth. "You're wrong, you know. About everyone being better off without you here."

She scoffs. "Sean, I could feel the resentment _radiating_ from my mother. And Esteban wouldn't even look at me."

"But Daniel wants you here, and it's his graduation, so his vote matters the most. And I want you here. And you are wrong about Dad." Sean sets the spoon back in his cup, which he holds between his knees. "You know what Dad said before I came to pick you up?"

"Probably 'Be careful with my car, _mijo_. You and it are very important to me.'"

Sean rolls his eyes. "Okay, yes, he did say that. But he also said you could come back to the house, if you wanted. That maybe it would be less awkward for you if the first time you saw the house again wasn't the party tomorrow. He said it would be nice to catch up, and he wasn't being polite. He really meant it."

"I don't know," Mom says. "I think Esteban is so kind that he can't _not_ be polite. If I went over there, it would be messy." And then she lets out a slow, quiet sigh. "I'm thinking I shouldn't even _go_ to Daniel's graduation party tomorrow."

Sean digs his teeth into his lip. He stands. Paces. Then stomps over to a trash can and slams his empty yogurt cup into it. And when he comes back, he still wants to scream. Instead, he takes a deep breath. Measures his tone. Just because they haven't been to this park since he was little doesn't mean he should act like a child. "Mom—Karen_—_I need you to know that I one-hundred-percent understand why you left. I get it. I forgive you. But the thing that I can't get over, the thing that I am still pissed about, is that you _never_ reached out. Yeah, you couldn't be Dad's wife, but you could have been his friend. And I get that you couldn't be 'Mom' for Daniel and me, but you could have been _something_. Maybe you were right about staying away. But only for a little while. These past few years of having you in my life have been pretty good! We could have had this sooner if you had just reached out. And I get that is hard. But I also know that you missed us. And that you wanted _something_ with us instead of _nothing_, but you chose _nothing_ because you thought that was better for us. Except it wasn't better for us. Because losing all the difficult stuff doesn't outweigh all the good things we missed by you not being there. You leave holes in the lives of people you care about when you're not there."

When Sean stops talking, a shiver moves from his shoulders, down to his fingertips. He feels it travel down his legs and into is toes.

Because in that other world, he turned himself in at the border to give Daniel a normal life. He stayed away to make Daniel's life better.

Except . . . Daniel's life isn't better, is it?

Because Sean's not there, not really.

Who teaches Daniel how to tie a necktie?

Who talks to Daniel about sex?

Or gives him his first beer?

Who does Daniel come out to?

Who tells Daniel that his awkward sexual experience with his best friend doesn't mean he's weird?

Does Stephen do that? Claire? Chris? Maybe Chris's dad?

Because it isn't Sean. Sean and Daniel talked every week, but there was always a wall between them. The walls of the prison. And the walls that _they_ put up, an unspoken agreement that they wouldn't talk about things that might make the other one sadder than he already was.

And Sean _was_ sad. He carved open his own wrist. A decision that he made, not thinking, not able to care about how it would affect Daniel.

He would have been "not there" forever.

How would that have made Daniel's life better?

"Sean?" Mom says. "Are you alright?"

"Huh?" he says. "I kind of spaced out. I'm, uh, sorry I went off on you."

"No, you have a point," she sighs. "I don't like bullshit, and you're right to be blunt with me. Esteban really said it was okay if I came back to the house?"

"Of course he did, Mom," Sean says, sitting back down beside her. "You know Dad. He doesn't hold a grudge against anyone. I don't think there's anything he can't forgive."

"Okay," Mom says. "Let's go, I guess."

As they get up to leave, Sean calls out to the kid who almost split himself in half on the kickflip. "You have to distribute your weight a little more evenly before you kick up into the ollie," Sean says. "Keep trying, though. You're almost there. You're going to get it right eventually."

# # #

"I wasn't going to say anything about you spacing out, but you have been quiet for the last few minutes," Mom says when they reach the car.

"It's nothing," Sean says, scratching at the tattoo on his forearm. "I'm good."

"You were a bad liar when you were a little boy, too," she says with a smirk.

He sighs, leans his back against the hood of the car. Looks up at the stars, which drowned out by the lights of Seattle, glow less brightly than they did the night he and Daniel spent at the side of the canyon. "You remember that stuff I told you about when we first came to Away? I have still never talked to Dad about any of it. I know he's a forgiving, gracious dude, but . . . do you think there is anything he _couldn't_ forgive me for?"

"Your father _adores_ you, Sean," Mom says. "Haven't you seen his comments on your ?"

"But what if I did something real bad? Like . . . what if I ended up in prison?" Sean asks.

Mom's face turns serious. "Sean, are you in some kind of trouble?"

He shakes his head. "This is just hypothetical. Like, it's probably just my anxiety. One of my nightmares that feel too real."

"I think your dad would see it as a huge personal failing if one of his sons ended up in jail," Mom says. "It would break him in a way that I don't know that he would recover from."

"Yeah, I guess he would be pretty ashamed of me," Sean says, scratching his tattoo hard enough that it leaves red lines across the older boy's head.

"But I seriously doubt you have to worry about that, Sean," Mom says. "You are very much Esteban Diaz's son. He raised you to be a good man."

"He raised me to be responsible," Sean sighs. "Definitely not to be a criminal."

The car doors slam, and Sean turns the key in the ignition. Dad has it set to an oldies station, and a Pink Floyd song is on the radio.

"You never did tell me the specifics of what happened two years ago," Mom says. "Or how you found me in the middle of the desert."

Sean chews on his lip. He's told all of this to Daniel. And most of it to Max Caulfield and Dr. Martinez. It doesn't feel like a story he has to hold as tightly anymore. And, besides, Mom was technically there. "Daniel accidentally killed a cop with his superpowers, and I took the fall for it so he wouldn't get in trouble. But then . . . I used time travel to change the past so it never happened."

Mom doesn't say anything for a long, long minute. Then she laughs, one single _ha_. "You're so full of shit," she says. "You for sure got your father's charm."

# # #

As they drive down the streets that lead to the Diaz house, Sean watches his mom's reaction from the corner of his eye. This has to be weird for her, coming back after all these years.

Sean gets what that's like. There was a time he thought he would never see 1452 Lewis Avenue ever again.

"So do the Fosters still live next door?" Mom asks as they turn onto Dad's block.

"Yes," Sean groans. "Their son Brett still lives with them too."

"He was always a loathsome child."

"I know that I shouldn't, but sometimes I look him up on Facebook just for the shitshow. He's always posting this right-wing garbage about how immigrants sign up for food stamps to leach off hardworking Americans, and, like, the asshole doesn't even have a job. I hate him so much. He was the source of . . . some drama growing up."

"His whole family were awful," Mom says. "They were cruel to Esteban especially. I was never sure if your father was too nice or if he didn't have the cultural experience to realize _how _nasty they were being. Probably both. I always threw my cigarette butts in their yard. The worst people."

Sean parks the car in the garage, and he pulls out his cell phone. "I'm texting Dad to let him know we're here, so we don't just show up in his kitchen unexpected."

"So you'll give your father a heads up but not me, huh?" Mom says.

"Pop's is caught up on his frozen-yogurt payments." When Dad texts back with a thumbs up emoji right away, Sean says, "You ready to do this?"

"No," Mom says, studying the door that leads upstairs and into the life she left behind. "But you're right. I've stayed away long enough."


	39. Episode Four: The Storm - Chapter Six

Sean Diaz knows this moment isn't real.

He is sixteen again, swimming in a lake with his nine-year-old brother, a brother he knows just graduated high school. But everything happening is so _vivid_. When Sean grabs his brother under the arms, he can feel each of the kid's ribs against his fingertips. After he throws Daniel into the air, and Daniel emerges from the water, grinning, Sean feels the wind cut through him as he is launched upwards by Daniel's powers, then the brisk chill as he falls back into the lake.

The thing is . . . Sean isn't sure if this is a memory or a dream.

Because this _did_ happen a few times when they were in California. Before Sean got caught up with Cassidy and Finn and having friends again, he would sneak off to the lake with Daniel for superpowers practice. After stacking rocks and exploding logs, they would strip down to swim in the chilly water. It was a way to trick Daniel into a "bath" that was much easier than coercing him into the camp's shower.

But there are little things that are off. On the run, Sean and Daniel had no changes of clothes, so they always swam in their boxers; in this moment, they're wearing swim trunks—the same trunks they wore to the beach last summer. Daniel's hair isn't a months-neglected, shaggy mess; the sides are neatly shaved, like they were for his graduation. And neither Sean nor his brother are concerned about the wolf that sits on the shore, watching them.

So . . . probably a dream.

Sean and Daniel wrestle and laugh a bit longer before Sean climbs onto the shore. As Daniel cannon-balls off a log, Sean sits on the ground, tries to dig his wet toes into the hard dirt which doesn't give. He's cold, but the sun drying his arms and back feels like a warm hug.

The most real thing about this dream is how it feels in his chest. Like he and his brother are two kids on a camping trip instead of homeless fugitives on the run. Like Sean can breathe. Hanging out with the gang in California made him feel like an actual teenager instead of someone who had to carry the entire world on his shoulders. They were saving money. He was finding himself.

That peace rests warmly in the base of Sean's heart. Like everything is as it should be. Like life, for once, could be okay.

The wolf sits down beside Sean. Dirt is caked into its matted fur; in places, the fir is so thin the wolf's scars show through. Its right eye is missing, and it carries a sketchbook in its mouth, which it drops onto the ground.

Sean picks up the sketchbook, and he opens it to the middle. On the left-hand page is a drawing of his childhood bedroom on the day his father was shot, on the day Sean changed the past. On the right is an almost photo-realistic sketch of Sean's Dad and brother. Of Toby and Sean's friends from college he only half keeps up with these days. Of the crew Sean works with at Nickelodeon. Of the characters from his _Superwolf_ comic. And in the middle of them all, is a self-portrait of Sean Diaz, twenty-four-years old, grinning as big as he can.

Sean isn't sure he has ever drawn a picture of himself so happy.

"You have everything you ever wanted," the wolf says. "How long before all of it is taken away?"

"I haven't done anything," Sean says, "to deserve having it taken away."

"But you're not supposed to have this. None of this is yours," says a voice behind them. Sean turns, and there stands Finn and Cassidy. Only, they are made of static, like they are images on a black-and-white television with poor reception. "You stole all of this," Finn continues.

"So you don't deserve any of it," Cassidy says. "You're a disappointment who doesn't deserve to be happy."

"You weren't there to help us," Jacob says, suddenly standing there with his arm on his sister Sarah Lee's shoulder. They have the same out-of-focus quality as Finn and Cassidy. "We never escaped Lisbeth's church. Do you know how many years we suffered because you weren't there?"

"Why did you take my best friend from me? Why wasn't anyone there to help me with my dad?" Chris says. He's scrawny, wearing a mask and cape like the first time Sean saw him. "You changed things. And you ruined others' lives—all to save yourself. Heroes save _other _people, Sean."

"We helped you, Sean," Brody says, and that damn piece of glass sticks from his throat. "We helped you when it was difficult to help you. But you can't even do the right thing, which you know you need to do."

"You have to change everything back," the wolf says. "You're running out of time."

"Why is this all on me?" Sean says, his voice breaking. "I'm not special. I'm not a superhero. I'm just a kid from Seattle. Why do _I _have to give up everything? Why can't I ever make a choice for _me_?"

"I am so sad to hear you say that, my son," a new voice says. And it's Dad. It's Esteban Diaz, his shirt soaked with so much blood it sticks to his chest like a second skin. He looks at Sean with such disappointment in his eyes that it stings. "It's not the bullet that hurts my heart, Sean. It's you. It's the shame I feel because I did not raise you to be this selfish."

"I'm not selfish," Sean says weakly.

"What do you call it when you put yourself before everyone else, then? When you put your wants ahead of other people's lives? All so you can, what, draw cartoons?"

"I'm sorry, Dad," Sean sniffles. "But I was tired. And sad. And I missed you so, so much."

Sean reaches out for his father, but his dad turns his back on him, and that feels like a screwdriver in his heart. It feels worse than losing his eye. Worse than giving up his freedom.

"Times up," the one-eyed wolf says. "The storm is here."

"Sean!" Daniel screams. A giant, impossible whirlpool opens in the center of the lake, and Daniel spins, arms flailing helplessly, at its edge.

"Daniel!" Sean drops the sketchbook and dives into the water. He swims for his brother, but the harder Sean swims, the further Daniel seems to be.

And then Daniel disappears beneath the surface, swallowed by the vortex.

_Shit shit shit!_ Sean takes a giant breath and plunges into the darkness. The lake is deeper than it could ever be in real life. He searches. Dives deeper. And finally he finds his brother.

_I got you_, Sean thinks, wrapping an arm around Daniel's tiny body. Daniel's arms lock around Sean's neck like a vise.

And Daniel feels like a thousand-pound weight. Like an anchor.

They sink further into the blackness.

Sean's muscles strain. He pulls at the water with his one free arm, kicks with his legs, but they keep sinking deeper.

Finally, lungs aching, Sean lets go, pulls with both arms and immediately breaks the surface. He takes a deep gasp that burns . . . and stands up. The water is shallow. It's barely to his hips. And the surface is still, smooth like a sheet of glass.

"Daniel!" he calls. "Daniel?"

The water is clear. He can see his toes. But nowhere is his brother.

Daniel is gone. The ghosts are gone. All that's left is Sean and the one-eyed wolf that watches from the shore, the sketchbook by its paws in the dirt.

# # #

Sean wakes up in so much sweat that, for a moment, he believes he for-real almost drowned in a lake. But, a familiar, worn sectional couch is beneath him, and his sketchbook sits on his lap; he fell asleep at Dad's house. He was working on concept drawings for _Superwolf,_ designing a new character, a wolf with one eye, and he's not sure yet if this wolf is a good guy or a bad guy.

But shit . . . he'll have to tell Dr. Martinez about this nightmare, undoing his weeks-long streak of progress. She says recovery is more of a journey than a destination, but it's a kick-in-the-balls to have trauma nightmares again.

Then his phone vibrates on the table.

And his heart skips a beat as he holds the screen to his face. It's after 3:00 AM, and he has thirty messages from Daniel.

_Oh shit_. Daniel must be lying in a ditch, body mangled after a car wreck. He must be face-down in a puddle, dying in a single inch of rainwater. Maybe someone laced some weed with something at the party, and now his brother is ODing in a backyard, scared and alone.

He imagines all these horrors in the short, long moments it takes to unlock the phone. But when he does, his messages from Daniel are only:

_Hey_

_Hey?_

_Hey!_

_Dde_

_Udde_

_Dud_

_Duudd_

_Duck_

_Ducking autocorrect_

_FUCK_

_Dude_

_Haha DUDE_

_Hey dude _

_U up?_

Then just _hey_ and_ dude_ misspelled a dozen more times.

Sean lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Daniel _probably_ isn't dying in a ditch somewhere. _What's wrong enano_? Sean texts.

Daniel's contact photo—the one of them flexing in the mirror with Daniel's sharpie tattoo—glows on the phone screen beneath the words: _Daniel Calling_.

"Good, you're awake," Daniel says when Sean answers. "Can you pick me up? People are passing out, and I don't think I should ask any of them for a ride home."

Daniel's words slur together, so it all sounds like one slow, breathless sentence. Sean can almost smell the alcohol on Daniel's breath through the phone.

"No problem," Sean yawns. "I'll wake Dad up and send him right over."

"No!" Daniel gasps. "Sean, bro, _please_ don't send Dad. I'm a little fucked up, and I'm not like you, I'm the _good_ kid, and he'll be _so pissed_ at me."

"Whoa, way to throw me under the bus, _hermanito_."

"Please pick me up? Sean, please?"

"Relax," Sean chuckles, sliding his feet into his shoes and grabbing Dad's keys from the counter. "I'll be right there, you little asshole."

# # #

When Sean pulls up to the house with the party, there's maybe a dozen cars parked in the yard and along the street, and his brother lies on the sidewalk staring up at the stars. Daniel grins and waves like a dumbass but doesn't get up until Sean pushes open the passenger door and tells him to. When Daniel climbs in, the stink of booze and weed is smothering, like a blanket over Sean's face.

Sean rolls the window down so he can breathe and shifts the car into drive. "You have fun tonight, _enano?_"

"Duuude," Daniel says, his voice slow and dreamy against the hum of the car engine, "tonight was fucking amazing. I drank, like, so much. But most of it was this tropical drink someone made that was, like, way better than beer. I don't know why anyone would drink beer when they could drink pineapple smoothies. And I danced! I danced with, like, so many people. Like, two, I think? And then a girl got sick in a bathtub, but there was a swimming pool, and I swam in it—the pool not the bathtub because there was barf in that—and . . . " Suddenly Daniel's voice gets real quiet, and he leans in close to Sean's ear and whispers, "I swam in my underwear. Shhh . . . don't tell anyone, okay?"

"I won't, buddy," Sean laughs, even though his brother's breath smells like a raccoon died in his throat. "I had no idea you would be this adorable when you're drunk."

"I'm not adorable. You're adorable," Daniel slurs.

"We _have_ to do shots together next week when you are in LA."

"And get my tattoo!"

The streets they drive down are quiet and empty, like they are the only two people left in the world. They are about a block from the house when Daniel says, "Sean! Burger Town is open twenty-four hours, right? Can we get burgers? _Please_? I'm _starving_."

Burger Town is about two miles in the opposite direction.

"Sure, Daniel," Sean says. "We can get fries, too, if you want them." He does a U-turn in the middle of their street.

"Awesome. This is a capital plan. That's a word I learned tonight. This kid who went to my school who moved here from Britain kept saying it. I didn't even know we had British kids at school! _Capital_. It's a capital word. And, Sean, guess what other capital thing happened tonight!"

"I don't know, _enano_. What?"

"Guess." He grins a drunken, sloppy grin.

He looks so goofy.

"Dude, just tell me," Sean laughs.

"I had sex. With a person! Another person wanted to have sex with me, so I had sex with them, and it was awesome. It was Anna. God, she's so cool, Sean. And I was safe like you said. Before we did it, I took out the condom you gave me and told her, 'We have to use this condom my brother gave me because we don't want babies or sexually transmitted diseases' and then she had sex with me, but we were safe because I used your condom."

"Wow, this girl must _really_ like you if that was your move," Sean says.

"But then I kind of finished and was like 'Oh no she's not done what do I do?' and then I remembered what you told me about the . . . you know . . ." Daniel flops his tongue in and out of his mouth, licking the air like a hamster lapping at its water bottle.

Sean cringes. "I really hope you didn't do it like that."

"I did it pretty good . . . I think . . . " Daniel says. "I think she likes me. Dude, Sean, someone _likes_ me. Enough to have sex with me. That's pretty cool. I didn't think anyone could like me that much."

Daniel's speech is so slow, and he stumbles over so many words that they have reached the Burger Town drivethru by the end of his story. The poor lady at the speaker asks if she can take their order, and Sean tells her they will need a minute. He sets a hand on his grinning, drunk brother's shoulder. "Dude, Daniel, you're an awesome kid, and _lots_ of people like you. And lots of people are going to like you. And I like you enough that I'm not recording you, even though I would pay a million dollars to show you a video of all of this tomorrow morning." Sean points to the speaker outside his window. "You want to tell me what you want to eat, bro?"

And Daniel's eyes grow wide like dinner plates. "Dude, did you take me to Burger Town? How did you know I was _starving_? Sean, you are a _capital_ brother."

# # #

Sean is astounded that Daniel inhales all of his food before they're even down the street from Burger Town. When they get to the house, Sean wrangles his brother inside as quietly as he can, but Drunk Daniel talks both loudly and constantly, and he bumps into _everything_. Sneaking an elephant into the house would be easier.

Sean forces Daniel to drink two glasses of water before filling the glass a third time and setting it on the nightstand beside the kid's bed. Getting Daniel into the bedroom is another ordeal, and the kid is too drunk to get his sneakers off. So while Daniel sits on the bed, Sean kneels, undoes the laces, and pulls the shoes off his brother's feet, which he hasn't done since Daniel was a little kid.

Sean sets the sneakers by the door, but when he turns around, Daniel is lying on his back, kicking his feet in the air, sort of like he's riding an upside-down, invisible bicycle.

"What are you doing?" Sean laughs.

"Something's wrong," Daniel says. "I can't get my pants off."

Sean rolls his eyes and grabs the cuffs of Daniel's jeans, tells him to hold his legs out straight, then pulls the pants off in a quick motion like a magician removing a tablecloth so the dishes stay in place. When Daniel says that his boxers are wet from being in the pool, Sean shakes his head. "Sorry, dude, I am not helping you take your underwear off. We are not that kind of brothers."

"It's all good," Daniel says, rolling like a caterpillar under his sheets. Sean pulls the blankets over him, tells him goodnight, and is almost to the door when Daniel says, "Sean, please don't tell dad I got drunk and lost my virginity, okay?"

Dad isn't going to care. But Sean says, "Don't worry about it, buddy. I won't."

But then Daniel starts waving frantically for him to come over. So Sean sighs, walks back over to the bed, and suddenly Daniel's arms are around his neck. It's clumsy, and Drunk Daniel doesn't realize how heavy he is. It actually hurts . . . but unlike the dream, Daniel doesn't feel like a weight.

He feels like a life-preserver, something you grab onto when you are sinking.

Sean hugs his drunk, dumb little brother who-just-graduated-high-school back as tightly as he can.

"Thanks for picking me up and getting me food and not telling dad," Daniel says. "And for talking to me about sex and taking me to get a tattoo next week and being a capital big brother, Sean."

"It's cool," Sean says quietly. "You're a little shit, but I'd do about anything for you."

"I know you would," Daniel says, smiling. But it seems flat. Muted. And when he speaks, his voice sounds oddly sober. "That other life . . . it's pretty fucked up you went to jail for me. Why'd you do that?"

"I don't know," Sean says. "I guess I just love you, _enano_."

# # #

When Sean finally leaves his brother's room and quietly closes the door, their father is standing in the kitchen. Dad has been in bed for a few hours, so he isn't wearing a shirt, and his arms are crossed over the tattoo of the wolf family Sean went with him to get last year

"So how drunk is he?" Dad asks.

"Whatever do you mean, my dear father?" Sean says. "Our little Daniel is not drunk. Oh, father, you must be getting senile in your old age."

Dad smiles gently, like _you little shit_. "Is your brother okay, Sean?"

"I just tucked him in," Sean says. "He's safe."

"You know, you didn't even come home the night of your graduation."

"Well, Daniel is a better kid than me."

"That is not true."

"Come on," Sean says, sitting down on one of the stools at their kitchen counter. "I smoked pot, like, all the time."

"I am shocked to hear this, my son, especially after you _insisted_ that you were 'not that big of a stoner,'" Dad says with a fake gasp and a hand on his chest, like he's an old lady clutching at pearls. "Sean, there are worse things a teenager can be than someone who smokes marijuana. And you were also an honors student. And a responsible older brother. And a great help to your old man." Dad leans on the counter and Sean feels his dad's hand, calloused from years of working on engines, on top of his wrist. "I am proud of you, _mijo_."

"Dad, come on, it's Daniel's weekend. We're supposed to heap praise on _him_."

"I know, but he is passed out, and you are the son that is in front of me right now. And I could not have raised Daniel without you. That was not always fair to you, Sean. You had to look after yourself and your brother at far too young an age because I had to work and could not do it myself."

It used to piss Sean off, having to give up outings with friends because he had "Daniel Duty," but when they were sleeping under bridges and in shelters, he would have traded every night with his friends for watching Daniel if it only meant they could be home again. "It wasn't that bad," Sean says. "You maybe could have increased my allowance, though, since I saved you, like, thousands of dollars on babysitters."

"You grew up to be a good man, Sean," Dad says, tugging at his finger where his wedding ring used to be. "I was thinking this tonight when your mother was here, about how much strength and courage it must have taken for you to let go of your anger for your mother and to invite her back into your life. I know she deeply appreciates that, even if she is bad at saying it. Your mother . . . she is better at writing words than she is at saying them."

"I know," Sean laughs.

"And I think about all the opportunities you have opened up for yourself, through your hard work to make a career out of your passion. And how your brother trusts you enough to call you to pick him up when he has been drinking. And that I can trust that you will bring him home safely." Dad's been staring at his hands, clasped together on the table. He raises his head to look Sean in the eyes. "What I am saying is you are very mature for someone who only has twenty-four years, _mijo_."

_I had to grow up fast,_ Sean thinks. _I've been an adult since the day I watched you die._

"Well," Sean says, "I had to you to look up to, Pops. You're a superhero, raising us two shitheads by yourself after Mom left. And all that stuff about working hard and looking out for Daniel and not being selfish . . . I got that from you, _mi padre_."

Suddenly Dad's smile seems sad, like Sean has said something wrong. There's a coffee stain on the counter, which Dad scratches with a fingernail bruised from work. "Maybe I taught you those lessons too much. I am proud of your successes, but you suffer from anxiety. And you see a therapist. Maybe you would not have these things that trouble you if I had been a better parent."

"Whoa, Dad, you did your best, and you were the _best_ parent. Trust me, I know for a _fact_ that things fall apart for me if I do not have Esteban Diaz in my life."

"Perhaps. Sometimes I worry that you take on too much. That the weight you carry that breaks your back, that I put it there." Dad drums his fingers on the table, an old rhythm to some classic-rock song that's familiar but Sean can't-quite place. Then he stands up straight, stretches, and the mouths of the wolf family on his tattoo sort of stretch into smiles. "But perhaps this late hour and Daniel's graduation have made me too sentimental. Fathers want their sons' lives to be perfect, not just 'pretty good,' and when they are not perfect, we take that as a failing of ourselves. You know, I am getting older, and I realize I do not have many of these nights left of having both of my boys sleeping under my roof. Sometimes I wish I had some kind of magic clock, where I could slow down or rewind time. And I think if I could, I would freeze everything in this moment right here where everything is good and right in my world."

"You know what, Dad?" Sean says, walking around the counter to pull his old man into a side hug. "I think I would do the exact same thing."


	40. Episode Four: The Storm - Chapter Seven

The day after graduation, Daniel wakes up with a hellacious headache and a text message from Anna:

_Hey it was really cool hanging out with you last night_

He sits upright in bed, the sudden rush makes his achy brain scream, but, holy shit, he had sex with Anna last night. Like, for-real sex, not regrettable-hand-jobs-with-your-best-friend-that-make-everything-weird sex. And he must have been at least "okay" if it was "really cool" to hang out with him.

"Hell yeah," he says, grinning at his phone.

But shit . . . what does he say? Like, Anna is cute, but she is also legit cool and fun to talk to. Maybe she would date him. Or even just have sex with him again. Either of those things would be awesome. He types ten different responses to her and deletes all of them.

What does he say to someone the day after they slept with him that doesn't make him sound like a desperate loser or a creepy pervert?

That is the question, and it is definitely a Sean Question.

Clutching his phone, Daniel rolls out of bed, and his legs wobble beneath him, unsteady like he's on a boat. Pain stabs his brain like an icepick. He feels like garbage that a raccoon has vomited into. Is this a hangover? Why do people drink? It's like everything is in slow motion while someone sets up a construction site in is head.

Apparently, he tried to take his shirt off in the night. He got his head and one arm out, but the last arm was too much, so it hangs off him like a messenger bag. He pulls it back on as he stumbles out of his room . . .

. . . and when he pulls his face through, what he sees makes him stop dead in the doorway.

Standing in his kitchen, for the first time in his eighteen years of life, is his mother. She's chopping cucumbers on a cutting board.

His hungover brain processes this like a computer that keeps disconnecting from the wifi. He glances behind him, checking that he walked out his bedroom and not through a dimensional portal. It's just his room, and to the side, Sean sits at their rarely-used dining table, working on his tablet.

"You look like shit," Mom says as Daniel turns back to her. The knife clinks on the counter as she sets it down, and she pours him a cup of coffee from the pot half-full on the counter. Then she reaches into a drawer, pulls out the bottle of Tylenol Dad keeps, and slides it over to him. "That will help. Eat something greasy, too. I think there's still some scrambled eggs Esteban made for breakfast."

"Thanks, Mom," Daniel says slowly, trying to juggle the coffee, Tylenol, and cellphone in his hands. "Hey, Sean, can I talk to you for a minute? In private?"

Sean says sure, and once they are in Daniel's room, Daniel sets the Tylenol on his nightstand then closes the door. "Dude, did you change the past so that Mom and Dad never got divorced?"

Sean raises his eyebrow. "What?"

"Why the hell is Mom in our kitchen? Wait . . . what happened after I left for the party? Did Mom come back here last night?" A thought pops into his head, so startling that he covers his mouth with his cellphone. "Did Mom and Dad have sex!?"

Sean laughs. "No way, bro. Mom came over last night but just long enough to drink a beer. It was maybe an hour and a half, if that. Dad _did _take her back to her motel, but he wasn't gone long enough for them to have sex. Not even . . . you know . . ."

And Sean starts licking the air, sort of like a hamster lapping at its water bottle.

Daniel cringes. At first, he thinks Sean is being gross. But then a fuzzy memory from last night creeps into his head, of sitting in the car, telling Sean about having sex with Anna. Daniel's face burns hot, hotter than the coffee in his hand. "Oh, god, I looked like such an asshat last night."

"Oh, dude, it was so great!" Sean says gleefully. "It was maybe the most I have ever liked you. But Mom's only been here, like, thirty minutes. She's helping set up for your graduation party. We were about to wake you. You know it's noon, right?"

"Shit," Daniel mutters, and he downs a swig of coffee, like the sudden jolt of caffeine will make up for the morning's lost hours; it burns the back of his throat. He holds out his cell phone with the message from Anna open. "What do I say to this?"

"I think you should go with, '_Wow, I can't believe you slept with my pathetic loser ass last night.'_"

"Seriously, Sean."

"Say it was cool to hang out with her too," Sean says. "And invite her to your party this afternoon."

Daniel chokes on his coffee. "I can't do that. I can't invite her to a thing my whole family is going to be at. What if Dad says something embarrassing to her? What if _you_ say something embarrassing to her?"

"Oh, I will _definitely_ say something embarrassing to her. You cock-blocked me a lot when you were little. But Noah is coming too, right? So it's not _just_ a family thing, so it's not weird to invite her," Sean says. "Also, Dan, I have listened to you go on about this girl for, like, a month. You obviously really like her, and this would be a good way to see if she only wants sex from you or if she would be your girlfriend."

Daniel watches the steam rise from his coffee. The sex was cool, but he's never had a girlfriend (or boyfriend) before. Someone to hold hands with. Someone to cuddle while watching movies. Someone to kiss and love and be vulnerable with. "You, uh, really think she'd be my girlfriend?"

"Ugh, stop making me say nice things about you," Sean sighs. "Yes, _of course _she could be your girlfriend. You're kind and funny and you're _almost_ as good looking as me. And this girl has _clearly_ noticed these things enough to text you first after you two did it last night."

Daniel rubs his chin. "I dunno."

"I'll deal with this."

Sean snatches the phone from Daniel's hand.

"Dude! No!" Daniel shouts, but Sean's thumbs are already flying across the screen. Texting Anna who-knows-what. Making Daniel sound like a desperate tool? Maybe sending her the most embarrassing photo in his phone? In the brief moments he scrambles to set the coffee mug on his dresser, he imagines Anna showing her phone to her friends, laughing at him, and he dives onto Sean's back, wraps his legs around his brother's waist. Daniel climbs his brother like King Kong scaling a skyscraper, but Sean just laughs and holds the phone out of reach.

Sean staggers. Daniel is as tall, maybe taller, than his brother, and Sean's an artist with zero muscle mass. Just before Sean's legs give way, he jumps, falls backwards onto the bed, his weight crashing on top of Daniel. The air is knocked from Daniel's lungs, but little-brother survival instincts kick in; he wraps Sean's neck in a chokehold and reaches for the phone with his free hand. "Give it here, you asshole!"

"I submit," Sean wheezes, tapping out against Daniel's arm. As he sits up, he passes the phone back to Daniel. "She already texted back, by the way."

Daniel reads the message: _See you this afternoon at your party_

There's even a little heart emoji.

"Oh, wow," Daniel says. "Thanks, Sean."

"If you two become serious, I get to name your dog," Sean says, and Daniel feels his brother's hand messing his hair.

Daniel is still staring at the text message, in kind of stunned, giddy disbelief when a sudden lightning-bolt of pain strikes his skull. He winces and rolls over to the nightstand for the Tylenol and the glass of water Sean left for him last night. As he downs the pills, Sean watches him, like a scientist eyes a dangerous experiment. "It's just a hangover," Daniel says. "It's nothing more than me drinking _way_ more than I should have last night."

"You know I'm always going to worry about you, _enano_," Sean says, pulling him into a side hug. But suddenly he pulls away. "You _have_ to take a shower. You smell like toes."

# # #

A few hours, four cups of coffee, and one shower later, Daniel is the center of attention for a graduation party on their front patio.

Dad and Sean have a huge "argument" over whether the Bluetooth speaker attached to Daniel's laptop should play classic 70s rock (Dad's view) or mid-2000s British alternative hip-hop (Sean's view). Mom comes up with 90s grunge as a 'compromise,' so guitars and grumbly vocals fill the air.

The grill on their wooden deck heats up while Dad and Mom finish seasoning and rolling patties for hamburgers in the kitchen. The two of them have . . . a vibe going on. They aren't _flirting_, not at all, but they seem to be making up for almost twenty years of not seeing each other. Or maybe Dad is doing Mom a solid and helping her avoid her mother, Daniel isn't sure.

Claire and Stephen bring cornhole, which they set up in the grass on the side of the yard closest to the Fosters. Noah acts as scorekeeper and sports announcer as Daniel and his brother get their asses kicked by their grandparents. Twice. And sweet, proper Grandma Claire has a _mouth_ on her when she gets competitive. When Daniel makes a lucky toss and ties the score, she shakes her finger at him. "You little stinker!"

"Whoa, Grandma," Daniel says, "let's keep it PG, okay?"

"We aren't as out of it as you think we are," Claire says. "I hear what you boys call each other when you think you're out of earshot. I don't understand how you can say some of those vulgar things to your own family."

"When she hears it," Stephen says, "she squeezes my hand so hard, that I'm sure it's the reason for my arthritis."

Daniel and Sean laugh, which sets them off for about ten minutes of calling each other "a stinker" then acting _appalled_ that their own brother, their own blood, would call them such a horrible thing.

It's probably the reason they lose the third game worse than the first two.

They're enduring gentle mocking from Stephen about their generation "being soft," when, suddenly, Noah grabs Daniel's shoulder and points towards the intersection the Diaz house sits on.

Anna Huynh is walking up the street, _his_ street, towards his house. She pushes the red-rimmed glasses that magnify her bright, brown eyes up her nose and waves.

He raises his hand. He forgets to move it, so it stands by his face like he's asking to answer a question in class.

The point of Sean's elbow hits him between the ribs. "Go greet her, shit-for-brains," Sean says.

"This is what I was talking about," Claire says. "How can you call your brother something so awful?"

"Hey, you called me a stinker earlier," Daniel says. "Worst thing that's ever happened to me, Grandma."

# # #

Sean hangs back with his grandparents and Noah as Daniel meets Anna on the sidewalk.

Anna is cute. She seems nervous but not as nervous as Daniel, who keeps rubbing the back of his neck and staring at his feet and blushing and grinning at every word they share, but he hangs in there. It doesn't look like he's totally blowing this.

After a few minutes of gawking, Stephen says they should all give the boy _some_ privacy so they don't scare the poor girl away. But as they are about to start another round of cornhole with Noah as Sean's partner, Daniel calls Sean over. So Sean walks past the shrubs and the small privacy fence that separates their wooden deck from the street to where his brother stands on the sidewalk with Anna.

"So, this is Sean," Daniel says. "He's my big brother."

"I know he's your brother," Anna laughs. She holds out her hand, and her glasses slide down her nose. "I am excited to finally meet _the_ Sean Diaz. Danny talks about you _all_ the time. I feel like I'm meeting a real-life superhero."

"'Danny', huh?" Sean says, smirking at his brother while he shakes Anna's hand. "I'm no superhero. I'm just some kid from Seattle. It's nice to finally meet you, too. 'Danny' talks about you _all_ the time."

"He does?" Anna says, the corner of her lip pulling into a smile.

"Shut up, Sean," Daniel mutters through a grin.

Something Sean didn't realize about the other life was that he missed having a little brother. Like, obviously Daniel was still his brother, but their Dad dying forced Sean to be the adult, forced Sean to take care of Daniel in a way he never had to before. He could pick on Daniel, but he couldn't be _mean_ to him, not in that way older brothers do that says: _I am the only one allowed to do this, and I will fuck up anyone else who is cruel to you._

Claire has a point. They say some awful stuff to each other now.

But there's a time and a place for it. And this is the first time Daniel has brought a potential girlfriend (or boyfriend) around, and his palms are already leaving sweat stains on his jeans. And as much as Sean wants to tell this girl about the time Daniel was taking a bath at five-years-old and one of the airplanes overhead rumbled the house so badly that he thought their home was collapsing so he ran outside completely naked . . . Sean instead puts his arm around his brother, something that's half-hug, half-headlock, and says, "This awkward kid has brought you up enough in our weekly Facetimes, that I kind of feel like I already know you. It's all good stuff, I promise."

"Well, based on how much I've heard about Sean Diaz, I guess that means Danny talks a lot about people he likes," Anna says. Her hair falls into her face as she looks down at the ground, smiling. "My sister teases me for talking about him all the time, too."

# # #

Sean helps his dad set out the vegetables and finger food Mom prepared this morning, then grabs his sketchbook. Between their wooden patio and the front door is a large, concrete step that's almost a porch, and Sean sits on it with his back against the house. Mom and Dad cook burgers and are getting along really well—so well, that they've started laughing over recollected stories like the time four-year-old Sean got so scared of a mall Santa that he wet his pants on the poor guy's lap.

Claire and Stephen sit at the table, sipping iced tea, reveling in their cornhole victories. With Stephen moderating, Claire and Mom even have an interaction—which goes fine!

And Daniel sits with his best friend and maybe-girlfriend on the steps that lead down to the Diaz driveway and garage, the steps where Sean sat with his best friend/girl-who-is-a-friend, smoking a cigarette on the day his childhood ended.

It's been a long time since he's sketched a scene of life in front of him. His old sketchbook—_the_ sketchbook—is back in California because he no longer feels he should carry the past everywhere he goes. But while that sketchbook is filled with life, this sketchbook in his lap is filled with work. Sure, there's some journal entries. But most of the pages are ideas for Nickelodeon or concepts for _Superwolf_.

Mom turns up the music as "No Rain" by Blind Melon comes on; Sean used to butcher the words to this in car sing-a-longs with her as a kid. But Sean gets caught up in drawing, so much that, at first, he doesn't notice that Daniel sits down beside him.

Daniel doesn't say anything. Just sits there with his chin almost on Sean's shoulder, like he did when he was a kid, watching the scene in front of them take shape on the page.

"I like watching Mom and Dad," Sean says, shading his mother's shadow against the fence. "Have you ever seen either of them laugh the way they have today?"

"It's cool but weird." Daniel says. "Dad took her back to the motel last night, right? And there's that phone call neither of them will go into detail about. Do you think they might get back together?"

"Life doesn't work like that," Sean says, shaking his head. "That door's closed forever. But they missed each other. You were just a baby, but when Mom left . . . I never saw it coming. My friends with divorced parents, they suspected their parents were going to split long before it happened, but to me, life seemed perfect. Then one day it wasn't. Mom and Dad never fought. They never screamed at each other. They never stopped loving each other. But sometimes you do everything right, and it still doesn't work out."

Sean feels Daniel's slow, long sigh rustle the hair on his arms. "You're doing that thing where you talk about what's in front of you, but _really _you're talking about the other life."

"It's hard to be here and _not_ think about how I almost missed this." Sean adds lines to Dad's face. Just enough to make Dad seem wisened, not enough to make him seem old. "In jail, I understood why an animal chews off its leg if it gets caught in a trap. Freedom is everything, _enano_. But the worst parts of jail have nothing to do with the bars or the guards who yell at you or the assholes who will stab you if you sit at the wrong table. The worst part of every day was going to sleep at night. Because things got quiet enough to be alone with two thoughts: that Dad must be ashamed of me and that I was missing everything. I missed birthdays and Christmases. I would have missed you driving or having your first beer. And I almost missed this, your graduation, too."

Sean adds wrinkles at the corners of Stephen and Claire's smiles. Changes the shape of Noah, Daniel, and Anna's shoulders, trying to capture with a pencil the closeness of kids with their whole lives ahead of them.

"You know you're never in any of your drawings," Daniel says. "Not when you're drawing real-life scenes like this, anyway."

"They're perspectives," Sean says. "That's how perspectives work."

"But it's not one-hundred percent accurate if you're not in the picture," Daniel says as the burgers sizzle against the grill. "I used to think you were self-centered. Now, I don't know if you ever think about yourself at all. It's okay to do that. I miss all of this too if you're not here. You know that, right?"

"Daniel, all of these people came here for your graduation. They love you."

"I know. And it's awesome. The fact that Claire and Mom are _trying_ to coexist—like, I _get_ how much they must love me," Daniel says. "But I never met my grandparents until you took me to meet them. Mom doesn't come here if you don't take us to Away. Would Noah and I have patched up our friendship if you didn't talk me through it? And you _know_ I suck at talking to Anna. In that other life, who knows what would have happened if you hadn't picked me up and carried me away. I don't make it, I don't graduate, I don't sit here with my _entire_ family with me if you aren't here, if you aren't beside me every step of the way. You _get_ that, right? Like, these people are here today _for_ me, but _you_ made today happen. You should be happy today too."

"I am, _enano_," Sean says, adding details to the concrete in front of him but stopping just short of where his feet would be—stops short of adding himself to the picture. "You don't have to worry about me."

Sean feels his brother's arm over his shoulder. "I'm always going to worry about you, you big douchebag."

"I know, you little stinker."

Daniel gasps, clutches a hand to his chest, acts shocked—_shocked_—that his own brother would call him something so vulgar and foul.

# # #

For eighteen years, the Diaz patio has only needed to accommodate three people, and Sean adds the finishing touches to his drawing as Daniel helps Dad carry out chairs from the dinner table for their guests to sit in. Movements used to bother Sean when he drew, but he learned to capture all the big things in quick, messy pencil. Life moves fast, and he started to see drawing it in action as a challenge.

With a marker, he finalizes all the details with deft flicks of his wrist. And when everything in the sketch is as it should be, he writes in the corner: _I deserve good things in my life, and they are not going to be taken away from me._

Sean smiles at his finished drawing. Of his mom and dad. Of his grandparents. And his brother who he got to watch grow into a good young man who has good friends.

Sean Diaz's life _does_ have a lot of good things in it.

And most of them are right here in front of him.

In the same place.

If something happened, all these good things would be gone.

In an instant.

They're all together and easy to take away.

Suddenly, half the world goes black.

Disappears.

No, wait, half the world doesn't disappear—Sean just can't _see_ it. He holds his hands in front of his face. The right hand is there. The left hand isn't.

His left eye isn't working.

He can't see out of his left eye.

His left eye is gone.

Closing his left eye in an ugly wink, he rests his fingers against his eyelid. After escaping the hospital, he would lie in bed at night, let his fingertips sink in against the flesh covering his empty eye socket. It always felt alien, always felt wrong, though it was his own body. But now, he feels his eyeball underneath. It's still there. He's still whole.

When he opens his eyes, he can see again. Peripheral vision. Depth perception. Everything is fine.

Except his shirt sticks to him with ice-cold sweat. Blood races through him like his heart is a NASCAR track. The party guests are only a couple yards from him, but they keep talking, not noticing that he's sinking, that he's drowning, that he's _panicking_.

_Okay, dude, breathe,_ he thinks. _Just like Dr. Martinez said. Control your breathing._

He closes his eyes. Counts his breaths. Focuses on the concrete beneath him.

His heart slows. His hands slide against each other as he squeezes them together. And when he opens his eyes, everyone turns away, trying to hide that they were staring.

It's embarrassing.

But he feels an arm over his shoulder.

Dad sits beside him, holding him in the way an anchor keeps a ship from drifting to sea.

"Come on, _mijo_, let's go inside and get some water," Dad says.

"I'm fine," Sean says on reflex but leaves the sketchbook on the step and follows Dad inside the house, and he's relieved nobody follows them. Dad pours him a glass of water, which Sean holds instead of drinking. He feels dad's palm on his back. "It's just anxiety, Dad. I'm fine."

"Well, my son, how about we take a minute anyway?" Dad says. "Make sure you feel safe."

Sean's almost twenty-five, but his _papito_ rubbing his back still soothes him like when he imagined monsters under the bed. Dad's palms are calloused from years of working with engines. It's weird how something rough can be gentle.

"You want to tell me what triggered it?" Dad says.

And Sean does. It still kills him that Dad doesn't know. About the other life. About why his oldest son was so broken that he has spent two years in therapy and is only now barely holding himself together. But Sean tried to tell Mom last night, and she didn't believe him, and Dad is less open-minded than her. And there's also the fact that Dad would know all the bad choices Sean made, know all the horrible things Esteban Diaz's son is capable of. As much as he wants to tell Dad everything, he doesn't think that talking to his father will make things better.

"Is it cool if I borrow your car?" Sean says. "I think I'll run down to the gas station to get more ice."

"Should you be driving, Sean?" Dad asks. "Maybe taking one of your anxiety pills would be better?"

"Dad, that isn't how anxiety medicine works," Sean says. "I just need some air. Driving helps me clear my head."

That's an argument Dad can't disagree with. With some reluctance, he fishes his keys out of his pocket and places them in Sean's hand.

# # #

The gas station is just at the end of the street, but the short drive resets Sean's brain. He pays for the ice, and on the way back, he struggles to not beat himself up for the panic attack. It feels like he screwed up, like he's blocked his own progress. Like he isn't working hard enough to be healthy.

It's dumb. He knows he shouldn't blame himself for everything that goes wrong, even with his own mental health.

He parks the car in their driveway, next to Claire and Stephen's vehicle. But when he gets out, he hears a voice say, "Hey, Diaz."

He glances at the car door, making sure it didn't turn into some portal that sent him eight years backwards in time.

Because standing in his driveway, hands in her pockets, is his former best friend/girl-who-is-a-friend, Lyla Park.


	41. Episode Four: The Storm - Chapter Eight

Sean blinks, expecting her to be gone when he opens his eyes, but, no, Lyla Park really stands in his driveway.

In this life, she is his former best friend, a stranger who once knew all of his secrets.

But in that other life, the one where Sean drowns in darkness, Lyla is his fiercest supporter, always reaching out, trying to pull him to shore.

"It's been a minute," Sean says, cradling the bag of ice like it's a child. The cold burns his arms.

"Yeah, couple of years," Lyla says, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Daniel sent me a graduation announcement, so I came to tell my favorite Diaz brother congratulations."

"You came all the way out here for Daniel?"

Lyla laughs. "Sean, I live in the city. I already had plans to go antiquing with my mom. It wasn't a big deal to walk over here."

"I didn't know you were back in Seattle." The ice rattles as Sean shifts the bag's weight against his bicep. "I didn't know you antiqued with your mom."

"You don't know a lot of things."

That stings.

But Lyla's nose scrunches, her eyes squeeze shut; her face always twisted like this when she threw punches she didn't mean. "You mind if I smoke a cigarette before I have to go up and be social?"

Sean says it's fine, and she offers him one, but he has still quit. She's impressed by that. They lean against Sean's dad's car, and he sets the ice by his feet. Small talk feels wrong, and silence stretches between them like a road made of lost years. Finally, Sean asks what she's been up to, and it feels weird to not already know she works in an office for the state. Lyla has seen the cartoon Sean works on. "It's total crap," she says. "But it's still pretty cool you're working on it."

The cigarette smoke smells exactly the same as it did over eight years ago.

Back when Sean did track, he never practiced enough in the off-season. So when pre-season workouts started, his cardio was bad, his muscles would hurt, and he'd usually throw up from pushing himself too hard. And his conversation with Lyla feels like that. Clunky. Short on breath. Off rhythm. But as Sean spins his father's keys around his finger, he and Lyla fall into old patterns, the way Sean's muscles would remember to pace themselves.

Her laugh has the same edge to it.

As they talk, it's a feeling Sean can't quite describe. It's like having a crush, though he never _seriously_ thought of Lyla like that. But they were kind of soul mates. His heart was entwined with hers, a pair of thieves, freaking fighters against the world.

As Lyla drags a cigarette in his driveway, like she has hundreds of times, Sean remembers how much he _misses_ her.

"Seems like a lifetime ago that we were out here, hiding our smoking from your dad," Lyla says.

"Dude, you're still hiding your smoking from my dad!" Sean laughs, gesturing up to the porch.

"I don't want him to be disappointed about what a bad influence you were on me," she says.

"Whatever. _You_ gave me my first cigarette."

"I always was cooler than you," she says, the smoke slowly billowing into a cloud that disappears above her. A jet rumbles across the sky, a white trail streaming behind it. "You know, sometimes I miss the airplanes overhead. They used to make me sad, thinking things wouldn't get better than 1452 'Lame' Avenue. But I'm doing pretty okay. And you? You're a big shot in Hollywood."

"I am bottom tier in Hollywood," Sean says, crossing his arms as the trail from the airplane fades, leaving unblemished blue sky. "But those days were pretty good. If life had only stayed _as_ good as it was back then, that wouldn't be _so_ bad."

"Don't tell me you're one of those assholes who gets sentimental for high school," Lyla laughs.

"Maybe a little. " Sean shrugs. "LA is cool, but I had some things happen that made he realize . . . staying here wouldn't have been _that_ bad. Adventures, wandering . . . they help you grow, but you can get your fill of leaving home. It's not freedom if you can never come back."

"But do you _really_ think you're going to come back to Seattle?"

"I don't know," Sean says, tapping his dad's keys against his chin. "Probably not."

"Why does it matter if you have the option to come back if you know you never will?"

"I guess there is something comforting about thinking you have a place to call home, even if you are far from it," Sean says. "It's like how Dad always talks about going back to Puerto Lobos. But everything he cares about is here. Like, can you imagine if Daniel or I have kids, and my dad being like, 'Peace out, grandkids, going to Mexico!' Like . . . he's never going back to Puerto Lobos. He just . . . talks about it."

_Like I did,_ Sean thinks. _When we were on the run, going to Mexico was never a serious option. It was just a direction, so it felt like we were running _to _something instead of _awayfrom _something._

Sean looks back at his dad's house. And that's how he thinks of it—as _Dad's_ house, not _my_ house. Sean has left here twice. Once when he was sixteen and again when he left for college. In neither of his lives is this truly his home anymore, is it?

"It's kind of sad," Sean says. "How your home can change. How things that were important to you can go away."

"I don't know if they do, not really," Lyla says, and she takes a drag that burns the cigarette to its filter. "Like . . . I have had a_ lot_ of talks with my therapist about how I carry the past with me. And I am horrible about only focusing on the bad things. But the good things _are_ there. Just because they are 'gone' in the present doesn't mean they don't count. It's, like, sure I don't really talk to this loser art kid with this weird wolf obsession I knew in high school anymore . . . but it doesn't change that he was always there for me during a time in my life when I needed him, you know?"

"Yeah," Sean says. "I think I do."

Lyla throws her finished cigarette butt into the Diaz trashcan, still hiding her smoking from Sean's dad after all of these years. "Anyway, think we should go up to the party?"

Sean hefts up the bag of ice, and they go up to the patio. Daniel spots them immediately, and he charges Lyla with a hug like he's nine-years-old again. They both laugh, and as he drags her by the hand to introduce her to everyone, Sean dumps the ice into the cooler full of pop and bottles of water. He catches up with his brother and Lyla as Dad hugs her, telling her it is so good to see her after all this time.

"And who is this?" Lyla says, holding her hand out to Sean's mom. "Did you finally embrace your 'hot dad' status and land a girlfriend?"

Sean cringes so hard his spine almost pops out of his neck.

"Ex-wife, actually," Mom says, shaking Lyla's hand. "My name is Karen. I'm Sean and Daniel's mother."

"Oh," Lyla says. And Sean can't help it—he snickers. Lyla is _never_ caught off guard. She's anxious. And defensive. But she's never speechless, and he would have paid actual money to see her uncomfortable like this when they were teenagers. Luckily, Daniel swoops in to rescue her, asking what needs to be done so everyone can start eating.

When Dad and Mom begin setting burgers on the table, Lyla pulls Sean by the collar of his t-shirt to the side of the patio and hisses, "Was that _the_ Karen Diaz?"

"Karen Reynolds now, but, yeah," Sean says. "_Es mi madre_."

"Shut up!" Lyla punches him in the shoulder. Like, hard. "You're telling me that _the_ Karen, the 'heartless fucking bitch that abandoned her family like garbage,' the woman that you ranted about like you were a Reddit men's-rights-activist, is actually here, at your house, and that's . . . cool?"

Sean shrugs. "People change, Lyla."

"Holy fucking shit." And then Lyla smiles. Not an amused smile or a smirk, though with her "resting bitch face," most people would think that. Sean knows this is Lyla's genuine smile. "I am really happy for you, dude."

"It took some pretty extreme circumstances to bring us back together," Sean says, but then he sighs. "Hey, Lyla, I really need to tell you something."

"Oh, Sean, I came out to have a good time," she says. "Please don't ruin it."

"I know you don't think it's a big deal, but I regret not making the effort to stay friends." Sean rubs his shoulder where she hit him; he'll probably have a bruise tomorrow. He forgot how _strong_ she is. "I know that if I had put even a little bit of time into _us_, you would have had my back for anything. Because you always did before. And I'm not asking you for your friendship again or your time or anything like that. I just . . . need to tell you that I know how much I lost by not having you in my life. You're really awesome, Lyla Park."

Lyla picks at her fingers. She has painted her nails recently, but the tips are already chipped. "You know, I still haven't met anyone who can pull me into heavy conversations in their dad's driveway when I'm not high like you can." Flakes of nail polish fall to the grass like purple snow. "Maybe we could hang out after this, if you're not busy. Maybe get drinks or something."

"Hey, it would be our first time getting drunk together," Sean laughs.

"Oh yeah, of course. We haven't hung out since we turned twenty-one, so when would we have _ever_ had alcohol?"

"Seriously, though," Sean says, "hanging out at a bar with Lyla Park sounds like a perfect evening."

But before they can set their plans, Sean catches movement from the corner of his eye, coming from where the Diazes' yard meets the Fosters' property line.

Because Brett Foster is walking towards them.

Brett isn't much older than Sean, but he looks like he's almost forty, beer gut swinging against the bottom of a Kid Rock t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He's wearing basketball shorts and one of those ball caps with the blacked-out American flag with a blue line through it.

The hairs on Sean's neck stand up. A vortex opens in his stomach, sucks at his chest.

It was a fight with Brett Foster that cost Sean everything. Sean glances at his family on the patio and feels like a mama wolf as a hunter approaches her pups

Sean catches Brett while he's still in the grass. "What do you want?"

"I came to tell you to turn off that crappy Mexican _fiesta_ music," Brett says.

Sean turns his ear to the Bluetooth speaker, and it only takes a second to recognize the song. "Dude, Pearl Jam is neither 'crappy' nor "Mexican music.' They're classic. You live in Seattle, how can you not—you know what, doesn't matter. Look, it's not even 6:00 yet. I promise we'll calm down before nightfall, so we aren't bothering anyone."

"Well, you're bothering me right now, dickhead." The words slur, crawling under the weight of the cheap beer on Brett's breath.

"It's a free country, Brett," Sean says.

"Not your country, though, _chico_."

Suddenly, Sean doesn't feel like a twenty-four-year old standing in his father's front yard at a graduation party. Instead, he's a frightened, wounded sixteen-year-old with a missing eye, cornered in the desert by two fucking assholes.

He's an angry twenty-two year old watching those same assholes shove his brother at a campsite near Las Vegas.

Sean's palm stings; his fingernails cut into his skin. He didn't realize he had balled his hand into a fist. He fills his lungs with a slow breath. Steadies himself. "Look, man," Sean says, the calm heavy in his voice. "My whole family is here. We'll just be out for maybe a couple more hours. Can you _please_ be cool?"

"Your whole family," Brett scoffs. "Your fuckin' border-hoppin' daddy and retard little brother don't count as a 'whole family,' loser."

Sean grits his teeth. "Brett, I don't want trouble, but I'm going to ask you again to mind your business and to not run your mouth."

"Oh shit!" Brett says, peering over Sean's shoulder. "Is that your fucking mom? Oh my god. She looks exactly the same. I did not realize how _hot_ she was when we were kids. I see why she took off now. Hey, you think she'd hook up with me or does she only have a taste for Mexican food?"

Brett grins like a dickhead; his teeth line up like targets.

Sean grabs Brett by the collar, right over Kid Rock's smug, stupid face. "Get the fuck off my lawn, and do not say one more word _sobre_ _mi familia_."

"Uh, _no hablo_ Mexican," Brett says. "And you ain't gonna do shit, you pussy-assed bitch."

Sean raises his fist. Aim's it at each one of those stupid fucking teeth. "I will fucking end you."

"Do it," Brett laughs. "Then we can finally get your whole family deported and clean up the neighborhood like we should have years ago."

Sean intends to put his fist through the other side of Brett's skull. To scatter each of those teeth across the ground. Except his arm doesn't move. Someone holds him by the wrist, so he does not get to make this mistake.

When he turns, the disappointment in Dad's eyes stings. "Sean, what on earth are you thinking, _hijo?_"


	42. Episode Four: The Storm - Chapter Nine

Daniel is halfway through a burger, amusing everyone with a story about how badly he and Noah got creamed at paintball last weekend, when Lyla comes up. "Hey, your neighbor is, uh, acting like a real dickhole, and I think Sean's about to do something stupid."

Daniel hears Sean say "_I will fucking end you_" and, oh no, Sean is about to punch their neighbor Brett in the face. "Oh shit!" Daniel says, right in front of his grandmother, and he stands so quickly his feet get caught in his chair and he falls onto the patio.

He brushes himself off but watches Dad get to Sean first. There's shouting, not from Dad, but Brett says shit they wouldn't air on Fox News. Finally, Brett huffs back to his house, and Dad turns to Sean. Daniel can't hear what is being said, but he _knows_. He's seen that look on Dad's face before. Dad lays into Sean in a way Daniel hasn't seen since Sean was in high school, and Sean tries to argue back—which never works. Sean's head falls. Noah always says, '_Dude, you're so lucky your dad doesn't yell at you,'_ but that isn't true—Dad's 'not-yelling' is the worst feeling in the world.

Everyone stares, too. Daniel's skin crawls like he is the one getting in trouble.

When Dad sits back down, Daniel goes up to his brother who still stands in the grass. "What the fuck was that, Sean?"

"Dad just reamed me out," Sean mutters. "I don't need you to give me shit about it too."

"You do need _me_ to give you shit about it," Daniel says. "Because I'm the only one who knows that you getting into a fight with Brett is what sets off The Darkest Timeline."

"God, everyone watched me act like an asshole," Sean says, glancing back at the patio. "Lyla probably thinks I'm a fucking psycho."

"You were seriously about to beat the shit out of him, dude! It was like when you took a bottle to that guy's face in Vegas. It was scary. You weren't Sean Diaz anymore."

"Yeah, I was," Sean says, staring at his sneakers. "Sean Diaz has a lot of darkness inside him."

"Or maybe Sean Diaz was a good kid who had some terrible shit happen to him, and it's okay that he's angry." Daniel hits Sean with his shoulder. "But I don't want that anger to make him do something he'll regret."

Sean is quiet long enough that the chatter from the party picks back up, drowning out the rock song on the speaker. "You're right, _enano_," Sean sighs. "When did you get so mature?"

Daniel points a thumb at his chest. "What's the point of being a goddamn superhero if you can't save your favorite people?"

# # #

From across the table, Daniel watches Sean nibble at a cheeseburger, head down, looking like the last rock on a forgotten shoreline as the ocean rolls over him. The dude is so embarrassed.

No one has seen Angry Sean before, and they don't know what to do. Lyla sits next to him but talks to Dad and Karen more than she does Sean. Claire and Stephen eyeball him like he's a thief shoving Slim Jims into his pockets at a gas station. It's like everyone thinks there is a monster inside Sean—that "darkness" he talked about—and they are scared of it.

But then Anna asks Sean about his cartoon. He looks up long enough to give a small answer, but Anna gently prods him for more information, and Daniel listens to 'The Bean Problem' for the hundredth time . . . but it gets a laugh. The biggest from Stephen, though he heard it last night. And Lyla riffs on it. And then Sean is back in the conversation, and everything is good again.

"Thanks," Daniel says when Anna goes to the cooler for a pop, "for making my brother feel better."

"The poor guy looked miserable," Anna says. "And you looked miserable because of it."

"You're kind, and that's cool. I like that about you." For a moment, the butterflies that flutter in Daniel's stomach settle down. "I really like you, Anna."

"Obviously. You apparently talk about me all the time," she says. "I like you a lot too, dummy."

And she grabs his hand.

And her glasses slide down her nose.

So Daniel leans in and kisses her.

Last night, they shared messy, drunk kisses. Kisses driven by hormones and a lack of inhibition. Now, his lips are connected to his heart, and though there's no promise of sex—they don't even use their tongues—the kiss is somehow even more electric and exciting. "That was awesome," he says when they finally break. "You're awesome."

Back at the tables, Sean and Lyla grin at him, giving him four huge thumbs up. No one else noticed. _Thank god_. He could not handle Claire or Dad making a big deal out of the kiss.

They finish eating, and Daniel makes Noah help him collect everyone's paper plates in a trash bag. But Daniel notices Dad and Sean disappear into the house.

And they return with a cake and a plastic sack.

Inside the sack are party hats. Cheap, cardboard cones for a four-year-old's birthday party, complete with characters from _Paw Patrol_ and those shitty rubber bands that dig into your chin. Daniel laughs as he pulls one on.

"Hang on," Sean says, and he goes to the front step where his sketchbook rests. He comes back with a marker and writes on Daniel's hat. When he's done, Sean tucks the marker behind his ear and takes a photo of Daniel with his phone.

"'_Educated Butthead'?" _Daniel reads when Sean shows him the photo. "Real mature, Sean."

His brother just grins and pulls on his own hat.

The cake Dad sets on the table has one of those edible photos on it, and surprisingly, Dad and Sean chose a _tasteful_ picture—a picture of Daniel from his first day of kindergarten, grinning with his backpack straps and his twelve-year-old brother's arm over his shoulders. Dad makes him stand behind the cake, kind of hold it up, and everyone takes a million pictures. Even Noah and Anna get in on it.

"Are we done?" Daniel laughs when it feels like he's been standing there for an hour, but his dad insists they take a few more.

# # #

Sean repositions the marker so it's steady behind his ear, and doing it while sitting beside Lyla gives him vibes of being a high school junior, bored in class, but with a whole life ahead of him.

"So," Lyla says, "you want to talk about how you went all scary fist-in-the-drywall guy with Brett earlier?"

"He's a dick, and he pisses me off—he has always pissed me off," Sean says. "You could have helped, you know."

"Whoa, buddy, back that train up. One, we're patching up our friendship, but even if we were still BFFs, you do not get to be angry at me for your shitty decisions," she says. "And, two, it's fucking Brett Foster. He's the type of guy who still has a Trump 2016 sticker on his truck, and it's _sad_. He is not worth your anger or time because all you're going to do is let some asshole ruin your life."

"It's my experience that it only takes one asshole to ruin your life," Sean says distantly. "You're right, though. I was a jerk. I'm sorry if I scared you."

"It's cool," Lyla says. "We can unpack all of this if you want over drinks tonight. We'll talk about Brett. And my tragic love life. And your decade of celibacy."

"I'll have you know, I have been in a messy on-again, off-again relationship for the past couple of years, and we are _maybe_ about to be on-again," Sean says, and he flips through his phone to show Lyla a photo. "This is Toby."

"Shut up! You're hooking up with a boy?" Lyla slugs him in the shoulder, and, _ouch_, he's definitely having a bruise tomorrow. "Dude, I am so happy for you."

"You're not, like, shocked?"

"Shocked that you actually made a move on a dude? Definitely."

"Wait, did you . . . did you know I was bisexual? Was it obvious in high school?"

"I don't know about _obvious_," Lyla says. "But I still have this picture you drew of all of us at the skatepark, and no straight boy would draw such softness in Ellery's cheekbones."

"Oh god," Sean mutters, blushing into his hands. Somehow _this_ is more embarrassing than the almost-fight with Brett, but Lyla assures him it's cool. She knew he was a lameass in high school and was friends with him anyway.

They let Claire cut the cake, Sean's still blushing when a slice is shoved into his hands, and Dad stands up and taps a plastic fork against the side of a can of pop. It makes a pathetic sound, but everyone gives him their attention anyway.

"So it is not every day that I get to embarrass my youngest son in front of everyone he knows," Dad says, drawing a laugh. "But I want to thank you for being here to celebrate Daniel's graduation from high school. When you were born, Daniel, I fell in love with you the moment I saw you. But I have this memory of the first time your brother held you. Sean was a little _niño_, and we sat him in a chair in the hospital with his arms propped up with pillows. I stood beside him, helped him hold Daniel's head. And I remember Sean asking, '_¿Este es mi hermanito?'_

"And I said, '_Sí. Este es tu hermanito.'_

"And Sean looked at Daniel and said, '_Hola, soy tu hermano. Te quiero, mi hermanito_.'

"And Daniel, I already loved you, _mijo_, but seeing the way Sean looked at you, I fell in love with you all over again. I know it is not easy for all of us to be here, which is why we have not done it before, but we are all here because we love Daniel. And that has given me a chance to see how you see Daniel, and that has allowed me to fall in love with his bright and beautiful spirit all over again." Dad's voice cracks. He drags a finger under his eye. "So before your _papito_ starts sobbing, let me say—congratulations, Daniel. We love you."

Sean leans over to nudge his brother and say, _Go hug our dad, dumbass,_ but Daniel has already stood up. He goes up and wraps his arms tightly around the old man.

Maybe Daniel doesn't need his big brother to tell him what to do anymore.

And that feels . . . odd. Like, it's good that Daniel is a kind, responsible young man. But so much of Sean's life has been taking care of Daniel, that realizing he doesn't have to is like losing a part of himself.

Being Daniel's big brother is a big part of who he is. And if he isn't needed anymore . . . then who is he?

_Eh, that's dumb_, Sean thinks when he finishes his cake and sets the plate in the trashbag by where the laptop and speaker are set up. Even if Daniel can take care of himself, the dude still needs Sean. Like, he couldn't even text Anna without help.

But still. It's funny how you can be both happy and sad that your kid brother, who is both your favorite person and the biggest pain in your ass, is growing up.

The melancholy rests in Sean's chest. He remembers dancing with his brother in the motel, right before Daniel learned their dad was dead, and he remembers dancing with Daniel in the car after learning Chris (and maybe Finn and Cassidy) have died because of his choices—times when he was both happy and sad at the same time. Dad will probably tease him for going back on their music compromise, but Sean adds "Banquet" by Bloc Party to the playlist queue.

"Oh no, Sean," Dad says when it comes on, "you cannot just add songs to our agreed upon playlist."

"Dad, this song is epic, and it is my day," Daniel says. "Crank it up, dude!"

So Sean turns up the volume, and Daniel does a goofy little dance, sitting next to Anna who seems charmed by it. Lyla sways to the music. Even Mom looks like he's tapping his foot to the rhythm. And Sean realizes that in this moment, sure, he's a little sad—maybe after everything, he'll always be a _little_ sad—but right now he is more happy than not.

But that happiness does not last.

Because fucking Brett Foster is coming back, and hot anger bubbles from Sean's gut.

Sean takes off the party hat around the marker behind his ear, clinches his fists, but before he can take a step, he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"Step back, bro," Daniel says, placing his party hat in Sean's hands. "I'll handle this."

# # #

"Where's your stupid-ass brother?" Brett says when Daniel stops him at the edge of the yard. "I want him to know I called the cops about your little gathering of illegals over here."

"Uh, everyone here is an American citizen," Daniel says. "Except maybe my grandmother. She called me a 'stinker' earlier so who knows what that woman is capable of."

"Hey, Sean!" Brett yells over Daniel's shoulder, and his boozey breath makes Daniel cough. "Get your pussy ass over here, you pussy!"

"Brett, c'mon, dude," Daniel says. "What is the problem? You want me to turn the music down?"

"Your pussy-assed brother is the problem," Brett slurs, shoving Daniel's chest. "No one fucking threatens me in my own yard."

"You were in _our_ yard, but Sean _is_ a pussy-ass," Daniel says. "His threat didn't mean anything."

Even as he says it, Daniel knows that's not true. He's seen his brother about to take a glass bottle to someone's eye. All Sean got from that guy was a few broken ribs. Brett caused much worse.

And, shit, Sean is walking towards them . . . but at least he doesn't have his fists cocked and loaded.

"Hey, Brett, do not push my brother around," Sean says, a forced calm in his voice, "But I shouldn't have threatened you earlier. I'm sorry, okay?"

"Oh, cool," Daniel says. "Alright, Brett, you got your apology, so I guess you can go home now, and everything is cool, right?"

"No, everything is not cool," Brett says, raising his fists. "I'm not going to take shit from some taco-eating son of a bitch. Let's go, pussy."

"How is 'taco-eating' an insult?" Sean scoffs. "_Everyone_ likes tacos. I'm not going to fight you, Brett. You look like you get winded going to the mailbox."

"Sean, that's not helping," Daniel says.

"Fuck you, pussy," Brett says.

"Eat me, asshole," Sean says.

"Sean, go sit down," Daniel orders. "I told you, I got this."

"You know what?" Brett laughs. "I bet you're scared of having your retarded brother and your mommy who left you and your fucking psychotic girlfriend over there see what a pussy you are when I beat your ass."

"I'm pretty sure I warned you about talking shit about my family, Brett," Sean says, and his fingers curl into fists.

"I called the cops, and ICE is coming for your ass," Brett sneers. "They're gonna take your daddy away and put you in a cage like the fucking dirty criminals you are."

Sean's shoulders tense. Daniel remembers calling Sean a criminal in the desert, his brother unloading on him in the worst fight they have ever had. Sean steps forward, taking a stance from when Dad taught them about boxing. Like a soldier diving in front of a bullet, Daniel jumps between his brother and Brett. He holds Sean back, but it's like pushing against a tree. Sean is rooted firmly in the ground, suddenly impossibly strong.

"Sean, please calm down," Daniel whispers.

"_No soy un ladrón sucio_," Sean hisses. "_Y este es nuestro país._"

"I done told you I don't speak Mexican, shithead," Brett says.

"Maybe you'll understand this, asshole," Sean says, flipping Brett off. "Get the fuck off our land, and _chinga tu madre_."

And Brett hocks a loogie that lands above Sean's left eye. Drops of spittle land on the back of Daniel's neck.

Watching the thick, wet phlegm drip down his brother's cheek flips a switch in Daniel

"Get the fuck out of here, you fucking piece of shit!" Daniel shouts and shoves Brett in the chest. "Fucking go home!"

Brett staggers but pulls back his arm. It blurs, and Daniel feels blunt pain rattle his skull as Brett's palm strikes his cheek.

# # #

Watching Daniel stumble, seeing the handprint reddening on his little brother's face breaks something inside Sean Diaz

He swings his fist into Brett's throat. Brett's ball cap flies off his head.

Sean kicks him in the gut. Brett doubles over, so Sean grabs him by the hair and drives a knee into the fucker's nose and tackles him to the ground.

Sean sits on Brett's chest and rains blows into his stupid fucking face like hammers driving nails into a board.

But Sean doesn't see Brett Foster anymore.

Instead, he sees the face of an asshole who looked at a frightened, hungry sixteen-year-old and thought '_This child is dangerous. I need to tie him up in my gas station._'

It's the face of a motherfucker who knows he holds all of the power, so if he wants to stiff two homeless kids on the money they're owed, they can't stop him.

It's the face of a douchebag who sees a broken, hurt kid—afraid and alone—in the middle of the desert and thinks, '_I can do whatever I want to him. I can make him sing. I can break his bones._'

It's the face of a self-important piece of shit who takes a scared child and exploits him for her shitty church. Who turns him against his own family.

It's the face of a dumbass vigilante who thinks shooting a brown kid at the border makes them some kind of patriot instead of a goddamn coward.

It's the faces of the jury that convicted him.

It's the face of the police officer that fired the bullet that killed the best man Sean will ever know.

There's shouting. Claire, Stephen, and even Lyla scream at him. Daniel and Dad order him to stop. But he doesn't. Years of darkness pours from Sean, through his fists, and into the sniveling faces of everyone who has ever hurt him.

Into the quivering face of Brett Foster.

But through the cacophony of shouting, he hears a single voice. A familiar voice. It's deeper than when he heard it last, more confident. But he'll never forget it.

The voice says, "Freeze. Stand up and put your hands on your head."

Sean raises his hands and squeezes his eyes shut. He knows what he'll see when he opens them, but for a moment, Sean hopes he won't be there. That this will be a dream.

But he looks, and standing a few yards away, pointing a gun at him is a police officer. And not just any police officer, but Officer Kindred Matthews—the cop that shot his father.


	43. Episode Four: The Storm - Chapter Ten

Still sitting on Brett, Sean holds up his hands, palms facing Officer Matthews. Sean has stared down the barrel of many guns, but this one turns his blood cold.

This is the gun that took his dad away.

"I told you to get off that kid," Officer Matthews says, "and to put your hands on your head."

Sean stands, legs shaky like toothpicks supporting a brick. Officer Matthews has a beard now, has filled out his uniform with bulk. He no longer sounds like a scared child but a confident officer who will not pull the trigger on accident.

That doesn't slow the pounding in Sean's chest.

"Sir, this is all a misunderstanding," Daniel says. He takes a step—and Sean's heart stops as the gun points at his brother.

"Step back, son," Officer Matthews orders.

"Do what he says," Sean says as Daniel raises his hands and backs away.

Brett coughs blood onto the grass, and he stumbles to his feet. He staggers over to the officer, face dripping, kind of hides behind him, the way Daniel hid behind Sean when they had the confrontation with Brett all those years ago.

"That's him, officer," Brett mumbles. "He's the asshole I called you about. Their whole family," Brett leans over, spits a wad of dark blood onto the ground, "think they fucking own the place."

A deep, purple ring sinks beneath Brett's eye, and his lip swells. Blood drips from a cut on his cheek and his nose, which is bent at an angle. He looks like a steak someone has kicked across some asphalt.

_I did that,_ Sean thinks. _I had that in me._

"Jesus, he really did a number on your face," Officer Matthews says glancing over Brett. He presses a radio on his shoulder and speaks into it. "Yeah, I'm responding to that noise complaint on Lewis Avenue. Can I get backup? Ambulance wouldn't hurt either. Gonna be bringing in a suspect for assault."

"Assault?" Sean whimpers. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

His job at Nickelodeon. The Superwolf cartoon that might-have-been. Life with Toby. He sees them all turn to ash in his mind.

And then Dad walks up.

"Come on, officer," Dad says, "my son is a good kid. We don't need to escalate things here."

Officer Matthews aims the gun at Dad. "Sir, I need you to take a step back."

"Jesus, Dad, please do what he says," Sean whimpers. It's hard to talk. Sean's heart beats in his throat.

Dad raises his hands. But he doesn't move. "My son is not a criminal, officer."

Officer Matthews's fingers tighten on the gun. "Step back please, sir."

"Dad, get the fuck back!" Sean shouts.

Dad looks like Sean has slapped him. Sean hasn't cussed _at_ him maybe ever. But Dad doesn't move.

"Dad, _please_. Please do what he says," Sean says, and hot tears sting his eyes.

"You're not a criminal, though, Sean," Dad says.

"I know, but . . ." Sean swallows hard. "Don't . . . don't try to help me. You'll get hurt if you try to help me."

_You die if you try to help me. _

Dad bites his lip. But he takes a step backward. And relief trembles Sean's body. He releases a breath that comes out as a sob.

_Oh god. Oh shit. Oh fuck._

"You need to calm down, son," Officer Matthews says.

"I know," Sean says. His voice shakes. "Look, I'll come with you, okay? You can arrest me. I'll go quietly. Just, please, don't shoot my dad or brother."

"I'm not going to shoot anyone, son," Officer Matthews says calmly. He actually sounds the way a police officer should. Reassuring. Like Captain America. He keeps the gun trained on Sean, but he holds up one hand, as a sign of peace. "You're making the right choice. Turning yourself in peacefully."

It's kind of hilarious. Sean turning himself in again.

A criminal, afterall.

It's not funny, but he laughs. Tears are falling out of his eyes, but he's laughing, and he shouldn't be, so he hangs his head.

But when he does, his marker falls from behind his ear.

On reflex, he catches it in his hand.

"Drop the weapon!" Officer Matthews shouts.

"What?" Sean stammers. He holds up the marker. "This?"

"I said drop the fucking weapon!"

"It's not a fucking weapon!"

"Put it on the ground!"

"It's only a marker," Sean says, like a six-year-old showing his _papito_ a drawing. "See?"

And though Sean has learned, time and again, that no one gives him the benefit of the doubt, that no one ever "sees," he removes the cap from the marker.

And Officer Matthews's index finger moves to the trigger.

And, in an instant, Sean knows that Officer Matthews sees him the way too many people in Sean's life have—not as Sean the artist or Sean the track star. Or Sean with the anxiety or quiet Sean with the lack of confidence.

Not as Sean the grandson or Sean whose mom left him when he was little.

Not as Sean the honors student or Sean who likes girls _and_ guys.

Not as Sean the son. Or Sean the brother.

But as some common, dirty thug.

Whose life does not matter.

And Sean has time to think that this is the last thing his father saw.

And he wonders: _Is this how Dad felt?_

The gun barrel flashes.

And their peaceful life, their life where 'nothing bad ever happened,' is shattered by a gunshot that echoes through the neighborhood.


	44. Episode Four: The Storm - Chapter Eleven

Fear's cold grip tightens around Daniel's spine. With each movement of the officer's gun, first pointing at Sean, then Dad, then back to Sean, the fear tugs Daniel's spine, sending icy chills up his neck, down to his toes. His face stings from Brett's slap. There's a buzzing in his head.

And Daniel watches the marker fall into his brother's hand. A catch Daniel has watched Sean make hundreds of times while drawing at the dining room table. The cop's fingers tighten around the handle of the pistol. His stance changes, like if Captain America took off his mask to reveal the Punisher. The empathy, the desire to _help_ disappears from the man's face.

Daniel remembers Sean's story about the other life. Daniel has seen the news. Read the hashtags. He usually gets to not think about it, but he knows he and his brother's skin isn't white.

So he knows what is about to happen.

And he feels powerless.

As the officer pulls the trigger.

And fires the gun.

And, in that instant, Daniel remembers: he is not powerless.

**Soundtrack: "The Happiest Place on Earth"**

**By Desaparecidos**

He reaches out with his powers and grabs the bullet.

Everything happens in an instant, not even a second. A thousand thoughts, a thousand reactions fire through Daniel's brain in less time than it takes to blink.

The bullet moves too fast. He can't stop it. Sean said Daniel was able to stop bullets. But Daniel can't do that yet. He can't do that _now_, when he needs to.

So he pushes the bullet away. It _almost_ grazes Sean's arm but doesn't hit him. But Daniel doesn't let the bullet go, can't let it go, doesn't think to let it go. So he ends up pulling the bullet back. It slingshots around Sean, like an asteroid caught in the sun's gravitational pull, and it turns.

It turns towards the patio. Towards Claire and Stephen. And Noah. And Lyla. Mom. And Anna. If he lets it go, it will hit one of them. He'll save his brother but only trade Sean's life for another.

He steers the bullet like a car without brakes. But now it will rocket towards Dad. He could send it back to Sean.

In this instant, Daniel briefly considers letting it hit himself. Taking the bullet in his body. Being the hero. Shielding everyone.

It is panic. It is the strain of pushing his unpracticed powers in this way he never has before. And it is anger, anger at this piece of shit cop who was going to take his brother away over a fucking marker. But mostly it is because the bullet has to go somewhere. And Daniel doesn't have time or the control to make a better choice.

So he fires the bullet back at the police officer.

The officer staggers backwards, like he has been punched in the heart. He touches his chest, finger probing the hole in his body. Bright, furious blood stains his hand as he holds it to his face, stares at it in disbelief. He drops the gun, which makes a soft _whump_ as it lands in the grass. He reaches for the radio on his shoulder. Mutters into it, "Shots fired. Officer down."

Then drops to the ground, somehow making a sound softer than the gun.

Someone, Claire maybe, screams. There's shouting. Panic. The noise, the terror, it rolls over Daniel like he is now the last rock on the forgotten shoreline. All he sees is the officer's body, lying still on the grass.

He thinks: _I killed him_.

His family—his friends—they watched him kill someone.

And his head hurts, like straining a muscle that has been pushed too hard.

He's a monster.

All of these people—only minutes ago Dad was saying all these people loved him—they witnessed him becoming a monster.

Cold sweat drenches Daniel's body even as the sun burns the back of his neck.

The pain intensifies. It feels like there's a chisel against his skull and someone is swinging a sledgehammer into it.

The chisel _whacks_ and _whacks_ his skull, opens a crack in the bone that zigzags from his forehead over towards his spine.

The screaming. The clanging in his head. It's too much, it's all too much. It blurs together and sounds like thunder.

Thunder rumbles inside his brain.

And for some reason, he pictures a wolf with one eye, just before the pain becomes so loud that he starts to scream.

# # #

_I'm not dead? _Sean pats his chest. Feels his face. No holes. Both eyes. No giant shards of glass in him either.

It's strange, how familiar this feeling is, this feeling of realizing he's alive when he should be dead. It's exhilarating. He laughs. "Hell yeah."

Except . . . Officer Matthews lies in the grass, and a bloody, bruised, and shocked Brett Foster stands over him.

"Oh no," Sean mutters as he stumbles towards the policeman. "No, please no."

Sean's knees hit the ground, sending a jolt up his thighs. Officer Matthews's blue uniform turns black as the blood seeps from the hole in his chest. With two fingers, Sean feels the man's neck for a pulse. It's weak, fading like the outro to a sad song.

"You killed a cop!" Brett has trouble pushing words through his ruined face, but he stabs a finger at Sean. "You motherfuckers killed a fucking cop!"

"Shut the fuck up, Brett," Sean says, and he presses his palms against Matthews's chest. This is bad, but if Sean can hold enough blood inside this man until that ambulance the officer called arrives, maybe . . . maybe Sean can stop everything that happens after a cop dies in your front yard.

The pressure creates a vacuum, the hole sucks at the skin of Sean's hands, a horror-show kiss against his flesh.

But as Sean desperately pushes against the hot, wet wound, he hears a scream, a scream that rises above the shouts and chaos from his patio.

It's Daniel. The kid presses his fists against his temples. He doubles over, head below his knees.

And Sean has a choice. He can keep trying to save this cop or he can go to his brother. He can't do both.

Above him, Brett swears. "You killed a cop! You're going to jail!"

There's a good chance that's true, no matter what Sean chooses—which, is kind of the story of Sean Diaz. Never a good option. Fucked no matter what.

"Brett, I need your help," Sean says.

"Why the fuck would I help you," blood and spit fly from Brett's broken mouth, "you murdering piece of shit?"

Sean sighs, grabs Brett's wrist, and pulls the dickhead down to the ground, presses Brett's palms against Officer Matthews's wound. "Keep pressure on this," Sean says. Brett is such an asshole. But sometimes, you don't get much of a choice. Sometimes you need the mom who abandoned you. Sometimes you run to the car of a stranger you met while he was blogging about nudism. Sometimes you have to take the help from the asshole next door who doesn't see you as a person. "Listen to me. You can save this man's life," Sean says. "You can be a hero. Can you do that, Brett? Can you be the hero?"

With another person's blood seeping between his fingers, Brett suddenly has nothing to say. He nods.

And as Sean stands, a headline flashes in his mind: _Asshole White Kid Saves Hero Officer's Life; Sean Diaz Public Enemy Number One._

It doesn't matter. His reputation, his life has never mattered when his brother needs him.

On the patio, Anna and Noah stand close together, eyes frightened, like small children separated from their parents. Lyla chews on her fingers, not just the nails, but her actual fingers, past the first knuckles. Claire and Stephen are ghost-white, stunned, expressions frozen in horror like statues commemorating a massacre.

Mom stands near her younger son, one arm over her chest, another covering her mouth.

And Dad kneels by Daniel, hands on Daniel's shoulder as Daniel clutches his head and shrieks like an animal as it's devoured by a predator.

"Daniel, _mijo_," Dad says, "speak to me. Tell me what is wrong."

"I killed him," Daniel squeaks out before he screams in pain again.

"I do not understand," Dad says, and, shit, his voice cracks. Seeing his son in pain, not understanding, it's tearing Dad apart. Sean wishes he could take that pain away, but there is not time for an explanation.

Sean puts his arm around Daniel's shoulder, and his little brother is cold, cold like the bag of ice Sean brought home not an hour ago, when life was perfect and he had started to believe he deserved good things and that those good things wouldn't get taken away. Sean shushes his brother, like he would when Daniel fell off his bike when learning to ride without training wheels. "It's okay, _enano_. I'm here. Breathe in slowly. Hold it. We'll count to ten together, then let it out."

"I can't hold it," Daniel says.

"You can control your breath," Sean says, repeating something his therapist told him.

"No," Daniel gasps. "I can't stop _it_. I can't hold it back."

The hairs on Sean's arm and neck stand up.

A high-pitched whistle tingles the thin skin inside Sean's ears.

Blades of grass straighten, point towards the sky.

The dust on the patio begins to swirl.

"Mom, Dad," Sean says, "we need to take cover."

Mom and Dad stare at him like deer that are about to be struck by a car, moments before they explode.

"What?" Dad says dumbly.

Sean feels it, the barely perceptible pull of Daniel's powers, the way his shirt is not resting perfectly on his shoulders, the way his feet aren't carrying all of his body weight.

Daniel howls, a little wolf in agony.

"Get the fuck down!" Sean shouts, and he dives at his parents. With one arm, he clotheslines his dad in the chest; with the other, he tackles his mom around the legs. But he drags them both to the ground just before the high-pitched whine becomes a squeal, the air crackles with a familiar electricity, and Daniel screams like his head is being chewed apart by a chainsaw.

Sean closes his eyes. Does his best to shield his parents with his body as their neighborhood explodes, is ripped apart above them.

# # #

Sean's ears ring with feedback like a speaker pressed against a microphone, so as he pushes himself to his feet, the world is eerily silent like the day after Armageddon.

A thin layer of dust tickles the back of his neck, and he wonders if he stepped back in time again to that day in October 2016.

Their fence leans almost horizontally; the Diaz patio furniture, his and Daniel's grandparents and friends lie in a tangled, barely-moving mess against it.

Telephone poles bend at sharp angles. The stairs leading up to the Foster's porch are collapsed, like the ground has sighed, tired of holding them up.

Mom and Dad sit up slowly, dazed, only now realizing that neither an officer firing a gun nor their son tackling them is the 'shocking thing' that has happened.

Daniel lies in the grass near Sean's feet. His chest moves in and out, the same shallow breaths he took when he was nine years old and Sean carried him away.

Their mailbox, their bushes, and Officer Matthews's overturned police car are strewn about the street. So is Daniel's graduation cake.

Officer Matthews's body is still, resting at the edge of the yard were Sean left Brett to be the hero.

Brett, however, lies on the sidewalk amidst paper plates and pop cans and the trash from the graduation party. His body is like a stuffed doll, thrown down carelessly by an angry child.

His neck is bent at an angle that necks cannot bend.

Sean covers his mouth, and his hand smells like pennies, like Officer Matthews's blood.

Officer Matthews and Brett Foster are dead. Sean and his brothers' grandparents and friends are injured, maybe seriously. Maybe also dead, Sean doesn't know. His parents sit there, staring, brains trying to process what happened, the same look Sean must have had all those years ago.

And his little brother is unconscious, after his powers destroyed half the neighborhood.

Everything happened so fast, like it did the day Matthews shot Dad. Some details are different, but it is the same painting. A cover of the shittiest song.

The ringing in Sean's ears fades, and he hears rush of water from a broken fire hydrant and the pained groans of people he loves—people he has let down by not being more responsible.

He stands at the epicenter of a catastrophe of his own creation, a mess he has made of his life.

In the aftermath of a storm.

* * *

_look up close_

_its superimposed_

_on a blank blue screen_

_yeah its fantasy_

_fucking magical_

_the dream floats_

_like a chemical_

_through each snapped synapse_

_television past is beautiful_

_no more_


	45. Episode Four: The Storm - Chapter Twelve

Sean stares at the nightmare around him, this worst-fear realized. The yard looks like it did when he was sixteen in the other life, like a bomb has gone off. Except this time, he knows it was no bomb.

"Sean, what happened?" his mother asks beside him.

"Daniel did," Sean says quietly as smoke stings his nose.

Before Mom can ask what Sean means, Dad shouts Daniel's name, scrambles to cradle his unconscious son. Dad runs his hand over Daniel's forehead, like he can wipe away whatever makes the kid sleep. "Wake up, _mijo_. Please wake up."

"He's fine, Dad," Sean says. Sean's hands are covered in a dead cop's blood, and he has precious few seconds before more police arrive to take him away. To lock him up.

Distant sirens pierce through the ringing in his ears.

The same fear he had years ago bubbles in his guts. When he was on the run, while he was in prison, even in this life, he has thought about the day Daniel's powers killed Officer Matthews. Thought about what he should have done differently.

He still doesn't know.

And he's running out of time.

Wait.

_Time_.

Before Brett showed up and life went to Hell, Sean drew the party. He can time travel to right before, prevent all of this.

. . . if he can find his sketchbook; it's not on the step where he left it.

His dad pleads for Daniel's eyes to open.

Anna, Noah, Claire, and Stephen struggle to free themselves from the debris of patio furniture and party supplies.

Lyla was blown down the hill. The left half of her face is a red Phantom-of-the-Opera mask of blood.

"Mom, do you see my sketchbook?" Sean says.

"Is now really the best time to draw, Sean?" Mom asks.

"I need it to fix this," Sean says, and he spies the sketchbook on the wooden patio, next to the overturned grill and a shattered bottle of ketchup. It's open, resting face down so its brown cover is spread like the wings of a dead bat. Sean pushes past his mother, and his heart fills with relief as he picks up the sketchbook. . .

. . . but the pages fall out of the cover.

They fall like a child who, stepping onto thin ice, plunges into the depths of a freezing lake.

A breeze catches the papers, and they scatter like ashes.

"Shit!" Sean grasps at the air as three months of Nickelodeon and _Superwolf_ sketches dance away from his fingertips. He chases down what he can, leaping over the overturned cooler, stomping on pages as people he cares about groan in pain only feet from him.

The betrayal in their eyes stings as they watch him care more about the sketchbook than their lives.

_I'm trying to make things right. I'm trying to help you. _

Sean has most of the pages, and he falls to his knees, spreading the pages in front of him, holding them down with his elbows. He flips over drawings of beans. And the sketches he did last night of the one-eyed wolf. But there's no drawing of the party.

There's not enough paper here.

This isn't the whole sketchbook.

He gathers his drawings in his arms and stumbles back to the grill, where the sketchbook cover rests on the ground. He shakes it, flips through it, begs it to give him more pages, but they aren't there.

They were gone before he ever picked it up, blown out by Daniel's powers.

Smoke tickles his nostrils. Coals from the grill have spilled, smolder on the deck. Among them, are bits of paper, chewed and burnt. He can make out the image he drew of Daniel, sitting with Noah and Anna, just as the orange glow of embers eats the ink away, reducing Sean's plan of traveling to the past to fix the present into ash.

This is the life he is stuck with.

Police sirens whine, one minute, maybe two minutes away.

Sean swallows the lump in his throat and forces himself to look, to really look, at what his decisions have done. Noah and Anna struggle to help each other stand. Noah has a gash on his head and cuts on his arms. His shirt is torn, pieces of it caught on what's left of a patio chair. Anna's shattered glasses hang off her ear like a string of Christmas lights torn down by a storm as she spits blood that trickles over the lips Sean's brother kissed not even an hour ago.

Claire pushes the frame of the patio table off herself and Stephen. Shattered glass from the table protrudes from her shoulder. Sean knows those scars never go away, and the skin down to her hands that held his in prayer look like it has been peeled off with a razor. Stephen clutches his leg, and Sean winces—a white, jagged bone juts out of his grandfather's shin.

Down the hill that leads to the garage, a bloody Lyla crawls like a soldier who has stepped on a landmine. And seeing Lyla, blood dripping into her left eye, hurts the worst.

When he was at his lowest point, the only voice he wanted to hear was hers. They were going to get drinks tonight. And now, he is letting her bleed in his yard.

Daniel said none of these people would be here without Sean.

Which means Sean is the reason they got hurt.

Max said this would happen. She said it in the prison and again in Augusta.

He made a choice to change the past and made one again by not changing it back.

He never picks the right choice.

And, for once, there _was_ a right choice—but he was too selfish to choose it, too selfish to do what he knew he should.

And in this instant, Sean knows this to be true: Max Caulfield is better than Sean Diaz.

This realization comes not with anger or sadness but a sense of relief. It is an acceptance that comes from finally admitting that others were right about him—that he was a piece of shit all along.

That his suffering meant something. That all of those bad things happened to him because he _deserved_ them.

Because unlike Max, Sean _would_ sacrifice Arcadia Bay. He would sacrifice a hundred Arcadia Bays and all of Seattle, he would give up everyone and everything, burn down his entire life—if it meant saving the only two people he has always loved the most.

Nothing else matters. He has to save his dad and brother.

Dad still cradles Daniel in the grass, Mom standing beside them, and Sean walks over to set a hand on his father's shoulder. "We need to go."

"Go where?" Dad says. "Sean, your brother is hurt—everyone is hurt. We need an ambulance."

"Daniel is fine. Officer Matthews called an ambulance before all this happened. I'll explain everything, I promise, but we need to be gone before the cops get here."

The sirens grow louder, and the hairs on the back of Sean's neck stand straighter.

"I do not understand what you are saying, son," Dad says.

Sean has a memory, of being a small boy and throwing a tantrum at Target, his father picking him up and carrying him outside, and Sean wishes he could drag his father into the car right now. He squeezes his old man's shoulder, talks to him with the calm Dad used when chewing Sean out for the argument with Brett that started this. "Dad, there are two dead white people on our property. One of them is a cop. The other is the neighbor we have a history of conflict with, who probably told the police that I threatened him. The police are going to see us as a family of 'dirty' Mexicans—a bunch of thugs. They will throw us in jail without batting an eye."

"What is this talk?" Dad asks, standing up. He sounds like a child learning there is no Santa Clause—learning that there is less good in the world than he believed. "Leaving before the police arrive—why would you say this?"

"Because the police, the law, they are not going to treat us fairly, Dad," Sean says.

"I did not raise you to believe something like that."

"No, you didn't—I had to fucking learn it the hard way," Sean snaps, and immediately, he feels like shit. He hates arguing with his father. Even when he was in middle school, it _always_ made him feel bad.

And these . . . these could be their last words.

He doesn't want this to be his dad's last memory of him.

But he doesn't want his brother to be locked up—_he_ doesn't want to be locked up.

Sean takes his father's hands. They're cooler than usual but still warm. Their calluses are rough against Sean's smooth, artist skin. "I have to get Daniel out of here before the cops get here. I am _begging_ you, Father, _con todo mi corazón, _pleasecome with us."

The sirens are closing in. The police are at the end of the street. There's not enough time.

There's never enough time.

Sean presses his forehead against his father's hands, as though he can tattoo his father's touch to his skin. "_Por favor, papito. Por favor_."

"Sean Eduardo Diaz," Dad says, "you are talking about running from the police. Like a criminal."

"I know this, _papa_."

"And you are not a criminal."

"I'm sorry, Dad," Sean says, "but I am. _Soy un ladrón sucio._"

And Dad's face shatters.

Sean thought his heart had broken in all the ways a heart could break, so he is surprised that he has found one more.

Sean kneels, slides his shoulder under his brother's arm. Shit, Daniel is a lot heavier than he was when he was nine, but Sean manages to hoist his limp brother up. "Dad, listen, you need to tell the police that me and Daniel did it. And that you tried to stop us. But we got away."

"Did _what_, son? I have no idea what is going on."

Sean shifts under Daniel's weight, and he pushes past his father.

But Dad grabs him by the arm, looks at Sean with so much pain in his eyes.

"Dammit, Dad," Sean says. "Please let me go."

"Let you go where?" Dad asks. "Let you run from the police? Let them hunt you down?"

"They will hunt us down if we stay!" Sean says, and he pulls at his father's grip. "I have to save Daniel."

But Dad won't release him.

"You have to let me go," Sean pleads, voice cracking.

_I have to let you go._

And if Sean wants to get away, if he wants to save his brother . . . he's going to have to knock his dad out.

The realization rips like a hacksaw through Sean's chest. One more cruel punch line in this joke of a life.

Dad is the only person who has only ever seen the good in him.

Sean changed time for him.

Broke down from just hearing the man's voice again.

But Sean has to save his brother.

So he yanks his arm away.

And balls his hand into a fist.

"I am sorry, _papa_," Sean says.

Pulling his fist back feels like tearing out his own intestines.

A bead of sweat falls down his neck. The sirens scream louder.

He's not sure he is strong enough to do this.

Then Mom steps between Sean and his father. She grabs Dad by the shoulders, like she would to catch a crumbling wall. "Sean, take your brother, and go."

"Karen, what are you doing?" Dad asks.

"You need to let them leave, Esteban," Mom says, muscles tensing as Dad tries to pull away. "Sean, get out of here. Now!"

Red and blue lights bounce off the windows of the neighbors' houses.

Sean's body burns with panic, hottest where his shoulder supports Daniel's weight.

"Shit," he mutters.

He drags Daniel across the patio as Claire and Noah and Lyla ask him to stop, beg him for help. Behind him, Dad and Mom argue. And the sirens squeal so close that they split Sean's ears.

Sean stumbles down the hill, Daniel's sneakers thumping against the concrete path. Sean still has his father's keys from the trip to the gas station, and he shoves his brother into the backseat of the car. The doors of the police cars slam in the front yard above him, but he reaches his hand into Daniel's pocket, pulls out Daniel's cellphone.

Before he climbs into the driver's seat, Sean tosses his and Daniel's phones into the grass. Can't have anyone following them. Can't fuck up like last time. He starts the car, prays that a police officer doesn't suddenly appear, hopes that his mom or dad stalls long enough for him and Daniel to get away.

He pulls out of the driveway.

And he does not look back.

# # #

**Soundtrack: "With Arms Outstretched" **

**by Rilo Kiley**

Sean is so terrified the cops will be right behind him that he does not look at the mirrors until they are outside Seattle. Then, he watches the city shrink in the rearview.

Daniel is unconscious in the backseat, but as Seattle fades, it's like the whole world disappears, like Sean is the last person on Earth.

Because Sean Diaz's world has ended. Again.

He _knows_ this sucks. To have everything back, to have all the "good things" he "deserves" ripped away—it hurts more than to have never had them back at all. It is like life pulled him out of a hole, placed him on top of a pillar, only to kick him into a pit of barbed wire and knives for a cruel joke.

It is sad, yet Sean does not _feel_ sad.

It is like his heart has hardened, become calloused like Dad's hands. Like Sean is a barrel that has had so much sadness poured into it, that there simply is not room for more sadness.

He feels numb. And tired. And that numbness feels worse, somehow.

Like life has so broken him, that he no longer functions like a person anymore. Like his body can no longer process actual emotions.

His childhood home. His friends. His family.

His dad.

Once more, he is never going to see them again, and he cannot even feel sad about it.

So Sean cries without tears, without sobs. Cries by staring straight ahead, feeling a loss so heavy that all he can do is carry it.

All he can do now is be strong for his brother and get them to freedom.

And not make the same mistakes he did last time.

* * *

_now its sixteen miles to the promised land_

_and I promise you im doing the best I can_

_now some days, they last longer than others_

_but this day by the lake went too fast_


	46. Episode Four: The Storm - Thirteen

The glass of the car window is cool against Daniel's forehead. From the backseat of his father's car, he watches the pine trees pass in a blur as his brother drives. Sean stares straight ahead, so focused on not going over the speed limit, that, thankfully, he hasn't noticed Daniel is awake.

Two years ago, after Daniel exploded the deer and they talked to the police about that Brody guy who died, Daniel and Sean drove up this same road back to Seattle. Sean had taken them through a carwash, twice, but a tiny clump of deer fur clung to the side mirror. As it flapped in the wind, Daniel wanted to throw up. Before the deer, his powers had been exciting, like he was special. After the deer, they felt like a poison, a sickness that he could pass on to others without meaning to.

Last night, he graduated and went to his first for-real party where he got for-real drunk and lost his for-real virginity to a girl he later for-real kissed. Today he was surrounded by his friends and family who loved him enough to set aside all of their drama and bullshit to be there for him. And now, like a candle being snuffed out, it's all gone.

How can the same twenty-four hours be the best and worst day of your life?

How did he manage to poison everything?

"You're awake, _enano,_" Sean says quietly. "How do you feel?"

Daniel feels like he is stuck at the edge of a dream and his brain is a giant scab.

"Is the cop really dead?" Daniel asks, watching the green haze of grass at the side of the road.

"He is." Sean's fingers drum on the steering wheel, an off-beat _rat-a-tat-tat_ that vaguely sounds like the intro to one of the alternative-hip hop songs Sean likes. "Brett is too."

Daniel winces. Brett was such an asshole, but he was still a person. It almost feels worse, being sad about the death of someone who was awful. "Did anyone else get hurt?"

"Mom and Dad are fine," Sean says quickly.

"Sean, that was not my question."

Sean's sigh stretches through the length of the car. "Claire and Stephen, Lyla, Noah, and Anna are all alive, but they were caught in the blast."

"How badly were they hurt?" Daniel asks.

"Bad enough for the hospital," Sean says quietly. "I don't know. I got us out of there pretty fast."

"Did you see their injuries?"

"I said I don't know!" Sean snaps, but just as quickly he lets out a heavy breath of air. "I'm sorry, _enano_. I shouldn't raise my voice. It's just—I'm trying to be honest with you, but this sucks. I don't want to dwell on how much this sucks, okay? The gorey details of it don't matter."

Maybe Sean's right. Does it make a difference if Anna got a small cut on her arm or had the arm ripped from her shoulder? If Claire got a bruised lip or all of her teeth knocked out? Either way, Daniel hurt them. He hurt people he cares about, who care about him.

And that makes him poison.

He leans back in the seat, and stares up at the ceiling of the car, at a brown stain that sort of looks like a dragon. When he was eleven, he opened a pop back here, and it exploded. The fabric at the top of the car has been stained ever since. Dad was pissed.

"Dad and Mom are okay, though?" Daniel asks.

"Yeah, _enano_, Mom and Dad are fine," Sean says.

"And we are running from the cops?"

"I'm afraid the Diaz Brothers are outlaws, yeah."

"Where are we running to?"

"_México_, _mi hermanito_. Puerto Lobos," Sean says.

Running to Puerto Lobos was what Sean did in the other life. It lost him an eye. It lost him is freedom. "Is going to Puerto Lobos really the best idea, Sean?"

"It's our only idea, Daniel." For a long moment, the only sounds are the rumble of the engine and the air whistling through the passenger window, which is lowered just a crack. "There is one other thing we could do," Sean says. "We could go to Los Angeles."

"To your apartment? That will be the first place the police look for us," Daniel says.

"It would be risky. But . . . my sketchbook from the other life is there. I could use it to travel back. Restore the original timeline."

Daniel sits up, so quickly he almost bangs his head on the dragon stain. "The timeline where Dad is dead? Why would you do that? Why not time-travel to, like, yesterday, or wait—you were drawing the party. We could—"

"My current sketchbook got destroyed in the blast, too," Sean says gently. "My most recent sketch I could travel through would be, shit, I don't know . . . maybe a year ago? I might be able to change things with it, but it's not a sure bet. If we took the risk of going to LA and avoiding the cops, we would have to make it worth it. Changing everything back to the way it was would be the best play."

"Well, we aren't doing that," Daniel says.

"Fewer people are hurt in the other timeline," Sean says, and his voice cracks at the edges like an old pane of glass. "You live with Claire and Stephen. You have a pretty good life."

"A 'pretty good life'?" In the rearview mirror, Sean's eyes are so focused on the road ahead that Daniel's older brother can't see him. "With my dad dead and you in jail? Fuck that."

"But I could—"

Daniel squeezes his brother's shoulder, cutting off the sentence. "Sean, you are not going back to that life for me, so fucking drop it."

"Okay," Sean says. "Well, I have three-hundred dollars in my wallet, cash I keep on me just in case. That should be enough for gas to get us to Mexico. If we drive and sleep in shifts, don't stop, then we can make it to the border in twenty-four hours. We'll tear a hole in what's left of that fucking wall. And, this time, the wolf brothers make it to the other side. Then we . . ."

The rest of what Sean says turns to static in Daniel's head. He crosses his arms, stares up at the dragon-shaped stain above him.

If only he had listened to Sean and practiced his powers, then Sean wouldn't have to be an outlaw again.

"Daniel," Sean says, "we're going to make it. Everything is going to be okay."

"Sure," Daniel says.

Sean is trying to act tough, like his heart is not in pain, but Daniel remembers what Sean said in Away: _My life would be better if I didn't have to be Daniel Diaz's brother._

Over the past two years, Sean has become Daniel's favorite person. A guy who calls him at 5:00 AM to tell him to have a great last day of high school. Someone who explains sex without laughing at him. Who picks him up at the for-real party where he got for-real drunk.

And yet it is Sean's life that Daniel has poisoned the most.

# # #

Daniel can't tell if it's been two minutes or two hours, but his feet feel hot. He kicks off his sneakers, like he would as a little kid on long road trips. He turns sideways, and hugs his legs to his chest. Curls his toes into the seat. His face burns, but the rest of him shivers, so he presses his forehead against his knees as bitter vomit rises in his throat.

It feels like there are two robots fighting near his lungs, beating the shit out of each other, throwing themselves against his ribs hard enough his bones might shatter.

"Sean, I killed people," Daniel says; the words cut his throat. "I hurt our friends."

"It was an accident, _enano_," Sean says.

"Superheroes don't hurt people. Monsters do."

"You are not a monster."

"I'm not a superhero either."

# # #

They are about fifty minutes from the Oregon-Washington border with half a tank of gas. Given the mileage of Dad's car, Sean figures they should look for a gas station in about three hours. He does not want to get stuck in the middle of nowhere without fuel.

Or, worse, have to stop somewhere with an overzealous asshole.

_Dammit, are we on the news?_ They are probably on the news. Maybe Sean should have held on to his phone to check.

But phones can be tracked.

Fuck being on the run and fucking shitty choices. Sean slaps the steering wheel, and cringes—he has to be better. He has to keep it together for Daniel.

The afternoon has faded to evening, and the sun paints the blue sky above the trees a hazy orange. In the mirror, Daniel lies in the backseat with his socked-feet against the window. Sleeping? In shock?

Sean isn't sure. But his heart hurts. Daniel in pain, Daniel feeling like a monster, is like being stabbed with rusty scissors.

"Sean," Daniel says, "what are we going to do in Puerto Lobos?"

"Dad always said he had some land there," Sean says. "It's where our _familia_ is from. Maybe we will live on the beach. Having a beach house would be pretty cool, right?"

"What about your job in Los Angeles? Your apartment?"

"It's a cheap-ish apartment in LA," Sean laughs. "Someone will rent it."

"Did you ever hear back about your _Superwolf _pitch to the Nickelodeon execs?"

Sean glances at the mirror. Daniel still lies across the seat, but with his hands behind his head, staring at the roof of the car. "Bro, that doesn't matter now."

"Did you hear back or not?"

"No, but Jared seemed to think it went well, and they asked a lot of questions, so . . ." Sean feels the excitement in his chest and cuts it off. He's practiced at not-getting-excited about things. "It doesn't matter. Even if they asked for storyboards or a pilot, that doesn't mean it would become a show. They were gonna say no anyway."

"What about Toby?"

Just the name conjures the image of Toby's smile, the way his brown eyes light up. Even Sean's fingertips recall tracing Toby's hips as they lay in bed. "What about him?"

"You said he might be moving to Burbank. That you might give your relationship another try."

"That's . . . a lot of _ifs_. It's _if_ he gets a job at Disney, and _if_ he even wants to date me again."

"You didn't put in all those _ifs_ when you told me about it."

"So what, dude? All he did was ask to stay at my apartment and implied we might have sex." Sean rubs the back of his neck, fingers running through his hair the way Toby's did when they kissed. "Even if we got back together, it wouldn't work out. Life never goes as planned. Why are we even talking about this?"

"Your job. Your life. All of that stuff you worked for—you're going to give all that up?"

"I guess I am."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Because why, Sean?"

"Because I have to protect you, _enano_!" Sean snaps. His fingers, slick with sweat and Kindred Matthews's blood, slide against the steering wheel.

In the mirror, Daniel sits up and pulls on his shoes. He tightens the laces with the determination of a boxer suiting up for a fight. "Pull the car over."

"We have to stay ahead of the cops," Sean says.

"Stop the car, Sean."

"I said _no_."

Daniel waves his hand, and the steering wheel leaps from Sean's grip. The sudden g-force presses Sean's body into the seat like it's a rollercoaster, and he stomps the brake pedal. The tires squeal as the car spins 180 degrees and stops on the side of the road.

Sean's heart races with panic and anger, and the back door slams as his brother gets out and god_dammit _why can this kid never fucking behave. Sean fumbles with his seatbelt, turns off the engine, and stomps out of the car.

A burnt rubber smell from the skid marks that curve off the asphalt cuts through the forest's pine, stings Sean's nose.

"What the fuck are you doing, Daniel?" Sean shouts. "That stunt you just pulled—we do not have time for this. The cops could be right behind us."

Daniel tugs at the sleeve of his t-shirt, stares at the bloody handprint Sean left on his shoulder trying to carry him into the car. "Sean, I can't let you throw your entire life away for Puerto-fucking-Lobos when you didn't do anything."

"We wouldn't be in this mess if I didn't try to beat the shit out of Brett."

"Brett was in our yard starting shit," Daniel says. "He hit me first. Your fight was not a big deal."

"I changed the past!" Sean shouts, and birds scatter overhead, their wings flapping like the rustling pages of sketchbooks. He counts a slow breath. "In the other life, you met this woman named Max Caulfield. She has powers similar to mine. And she warned me that changing the past would have a cost. People who helped us in the other life died here. Our friends and family got hurt. And now we are on the run, all because _I_ was selfish."

One of Daniel's eyebrows shoots to his forehead. "Sean, you saved our dad. You chose to stay in a life that you _earned_ instead of one where you are in prison. How the hell is that being selfish?"

"People got hurt because of me," Sean says, and the admission scrapes his throat. "You said it yourself—'superheroes don't hurt people.'"

"You are awesome, and I look up to you, but you are not a superhero," Daniel says gently. "You're just a kid from Seattle. I get that life has been shitty to you, but it is not trying to punish you. Before today, those people who got hurt had nothing to do with us."

"I _know_ that they did," Sean says.

"And today? People got hurt because _I_ didn't practice _my_ powers. Like you told me to, a hundred times. It is my fault. Not yours." Daniel hugs his skinny arms around his chest so tight that his ribs almost stick through his t-shirt. He kicks at the gravel; tiny rocks bounce into the empty road. "It has always been my fault, never yours."

"I don't regret any of my choices," Sean says, and Daniel scoffs, rolls his eyes. But Sean keeps going. "I would do everything again, exactly the same to save you, _enano_. But the cops are on their way, and if you end up in jail, then that means every scar I got, every painful, shitty thing that happened to me was for _nothing_."

"So, what, we run away to Mexico?" Daniel says. "Where we know no one? Everything you built, Sean, your art, your job, your friends—"

"All of that means nothing if my brother throws his life away."

"And what if _my_ brother throws _his_ life away?" Daniel shouts, and his voice echoes off the trees, like the forest beside them is alive with Ents from _Lord of the Rings_, hurt and angry. "All my life, dude, all I have wanted is for you to treat me like a person, like I am someone that you _like_ spending time with. But most of the time, even now, you treat me like a responsibility, like I'm a burden. The way you look at me sometimes, it is like you see me as . . . I don't know, like I'm some boulder you have to carry. You take on so much shit, Sean, that is not your shit to take on. You are not my dad. You are my brother. When all that shit happened in the other life, you might have been bigger than me, but you were a kid. We were _both_ just kids."

"No, I was the older brother, and that comes with responsibility," Sean says, eying the road, anxious that a cop car will appear over the hill at any moment. "And I am more than just your brother, Daniel. When Mom left, I had to help Dad raise you. I knew how to heat up baby formula when I was eight. I showed you how to use the toilet when you were a toddler. And when Dad died . . . then I had to be 'Dad,' too. He told me once, that having us was like having his heart outside his chest. And at some point, that is how I started to feel about you. Like my heart was running around independent of me where anyone could hurt it. Taking care of you is more important than taking care of myself, and I know that sounds fucked up, but it's true. If the police take you away, that will be like dying. I would rather be in jail than have my heart locked away in a prison cell."

Daniel stares up at the sky. The way the sunlight falls on his face, Sean thinks there's a shadow on the kid's chin, but it's actually the thin wisps of a first beard.

God, when did his baby brother turn into a man?

"You know that 'other' me, the Daniel in the other life? I think about him every day," Daniel says slowly. "And I bet he would give anything to change what happened. But he can't. Imagine having this amazing older brother who loves you more—more than you deserve to be loved because you're poison, and all you do is fuck things up for him. And you have to live your life, every day knowing that your big brother gave up his freedom and his dreams, and the only mistake he ever made was loving you. I know you were sad in that other life, Sean, but I can promise you, that the Daniel in that other life was every bit as sad as you. Don't give up everything because you want to protect me. Please. You cannot fucking put that on me. The guilt of that, Sean—it would eat me alive. You have to stop sacrificing everything in your life for me. I don't know what that is, but it isn't love."

There is an ache in Daniel's voice, a desperate, deep pain.

"You aren't poison, Daniel," Sean says. "And I'm not letting you go to Puerto Lobos alone."

Daniel closes his eyes, and his body trembles. He lifts his face towards the sky, and when his eyes again meet Sean's, they are pink, his dark irises floating in tears. "Sean, I'm not going to Puerto Lobos."

"What?"

"I'm going back to Seattle. To turn myself in."

"No way," Sean says, and it feels like he's carrying a sandcastle across a beach, the sand slipping between his fingers. "Daniel, no, I have been here before, and I can't let you . . . You killed a police officer. With a bullet. I'm not saying this to make you feel bad, but I need you to understand the shit we are in. They probably have audio of that cop saying I had a weapon, and with Brett dead too . . . I know it seems impossible, but that is far more evidence than what they convicted me with. You are eighteen-years old. You are an adult in the eyes of the law. They will lock you away forever."

"I'm not exactly _excited_ about this choice, Sean," Daniel says. "But I know what the choice is. And, you know, I guess Diaz brothers make dumb sacrifices."

"This isn't a joke."

"I don't want to be an outlaw, Sean. Life on the run—that isn't how Dad raised us. We're not criminals."

"Dad thinks most people are as good as he is, and he doesn't get how shitty the world can actually be," Sean insists. "Listen to me, _enano. _Don't be stupid."

"And if I don't turn myself in, they might come after you. I won't let my brother throw his life away," Daniel says, and his voice is measured, calm, like this is a decision he made long before today. "I don't want to be a monster. I don't want to be poison. I want to be the superhero. Let me be the superhero, okay? For once, let _me_ save _you_."

"Life is full of choices," Sean says, but the words are shaky, hard to get out, "and you are making the wrong one. I cannot let you do this."

"And how are you going to stop me?" Daniel laughs quietly. "I just leveled half a neighborhood with my brain."

"I don't know!" Sean gasps, curling his fingers into a fist. "I'll, uh, kick your ass, if I—if I have to."

Daniel's laugh is sad yet genuine. The gravel crunches beneath his sneakers as he closes the distance between them. "Come here, you big dummy," he says, and Sean feels his brother's arms wrap around him.

"I'm not a big dummy," Sean says quietly, and he hugs his brother. Against his palms, he feels Daniel's shoulder blades; the muscles in his arms ache from holding Daniel so tightly. "You're taller than me. If anything, you're the _big_ dummy, you little asshole."

Sean presses his face into his brother's neck, which smells like the bodywash Sean used in high school. Their chests pressed together, he can feel Daniel's heart beat against his own.

"_Te quiero, enano," _Sean whispers. _"Te quiero mucho. Siempre y siempre._"

"_Yo se,_" Daniel says in the Spanish they have practiced over the past two years. "_Te quiero también, mi hermano. Te quiero mucho. Siempre y siempre y siempre._"

A tear slides out of Sean's eye, his right one, which always seems to leak before the left, even now. It dampens the collar of Daniel's t-shirt, which is stained with blood.

Stained like lives which never work out the way they should.

This can't be how the story of the wolf brothers ends.

Daniel lets go of the hug.

And Sean pulls back his fist.

He swings, intending to knock his brother out, intending to stop this mistake.

But Sean's fist stops in the air, inches from Daniel's face. Daniel doesn't even blink, and Sean doesn't know if it's himself or Daniel's powers that stops it.

"I'm sorry," Daniel says with the forced, reassuring confidence Sean mastered years ago, and he raises his palm. "I love you."

The impact of Daniel's powers feels like being hit in the chest with the butt of a rifle, a wrecking ball collision that reverberates into Sean's bones. Sean flies backwards, arms flailing through the air, and, when he lands, gravel bites the skin of his elbows. The wind is knocked from his lungs. His vision darkens, and for a moment, he almost imagines stars the way a cartoon characters does when hit with a mallet.

He hears the car engine rumble to life. Struggles to sit up. He coughs, but as he pushes himself up on a bloody elbow, the car's taillights are already fading over the hill, and his brother is gone.


	47. Episode Four: The Storm - Fourteen

_Seattle, Washington_

_December 2017_

_Eight months before Sean Diaz starts art school in Savannah, Georgia_

Sean's fingers fly over the plastic _Guitar Fighter_ controller. A late-90s pop-punk song blares through his living room television's speakers, and a dozen colors assault him from the screen. He hears the mechanical whine of the garage door opening downstairs, but louder is the dissonant _clunk_ each time he misses a note.

"I beat you again!" his ten-year-old brother says as the song ends. Daniel lifts the guitar controller over his head like a _luchador_ holding his championship. "That's three in a row!"

"You got a hundred percent?!" Sean says, as their scores appear on the screen. "Okay, new rule, you _have_ to stop playing on Easy Mode, dude."

"Are my eyes playing tricks on me?" Dad says, standing in the doorway to their garage. He wears his blue work shirt, and his jeans are stained with grease. "I come home and find my boys playing together? _And_ getting along? Okay, what is the catch?"

"You should probably tell him," Sean says, nudging Daniel with an elbow.

"I was joking," Dad says. "There does not have to be a catch."

Daniel sets his controller in the chair and looks down at his socked-toes as they curl into the thin carpet. "I spilled the chili you made last night. All of it."

"But it was an accident," Sean says before Dad can snap. "And he helped me clean it up."

"That was supposed to get us through most of the week," Dad mutters. "But . . . I guess we can do frozen pizza. That was not as big of a deal as you two built it up to be."

"Frozen pizza is way better than chili anyway," Daniel says, lighting up. "Oh! Sean! Tell Dad what came in the mail!"

"I got a letter from Savannah College of Art and Design," Sean says, and Daniel leaps over the couch like Spider-Man, grabs the envelope from the counter, and shoves it into Dad's hands.

"Sean, you haven't opened this," Dad says.

"I was waiting for you," Sean says.

"Well, let's open it now," Dad says.

Sean takes the letter from his father, and it is heavy like a brick. He stares at the front until the letters and numbers of his name and address blur together.

"_Mijo_, what is wrong?" Dad asks.

"He was like this when he got the letter this afternoon too," Daniel says. "Come _on_, Sean, the suspense is killing me. I am _dying_. Can I open it for you?"

"No!" Sean says. "I—I can do it."

But all he does is stare at it.

"Okay, Seanie-boy, let's go to your room, okay?" Dad says gently.

Sean shakes his head, but he feels Dad's hand rest on his back, and he lets his father guide him to his room. Daniel whines that it isn't fair he doesn't get to see the letter as Dad closes the door on him.

The bed shifts underneath Sean as he sits down, still clutching the letter with both hands. Dad stands near the desk and glares disapprovingly at Sean's light box; last night, Sean changed the letters on it to say _BONER JAMS_, an inside joke with Ellery and Lyla.

"Okay, son, tell me what is wrong," Dad says, choosing not to comment on the light box. "Why do you not want to open this letter?"

The laptop still rests on the pillow from talking to Lyla about going to Washington State together this afternoon. "I don't know what's inside this," Sean says.

Dad chuckles. "That sounds like a reason _to_ open it."

"I worked really hard for this, Dad. To get into art school. What if this letter tells me I wasn't good enough? What if it still doesn't work out?"

"Ah, I understand about things not working out," Dad says, and he pushes the copy of _Sirens of Titan_ away on Sean's bed so he can sit down. This close, Sean can smell the motor oil and Old Spice aftershave on his father. "Sometimes in life, _mijo, _we do our best. We work hard. We can do everything right and still not get the thing that we want. However, that does not mean all that work you did before does not matter. Regardless of what that letter says, you grew as an artist, right? Nothing can take that away. Not to sound too corny, but sometimes that journey is more important than where you end up."

Dad has a point. About a year ago, Sean struggled with perspective. Most of his drawings tended to be flat, straight on. If he had to change the angle or think about how light creates shadow, everything would fall apart. Now, he does a pretty decent job of drawing what is in front of him. He's got his cartoony style, but he can also capture real-life. He _has_ gotten better.

He takes the envelope between his fingers, but he still cannot tear it open. "I'm still scared, Pops. God, I'm sorry. I'm being a pussy."

"Hey, what is that talk?" Sean feels his dad's arm, a comforting weight that fits over his shoulders and pulls him into a hug. "This is your future, your next step in life. That is a big thing. There is no shame in being scared."

"Yeah, but you, like, left a whole country. I'm just opening a letter."

"Okay, let's think about this. You want to go to this school, right? However, if you never got this letter at all, or if we threw it away without opening it, would you be going to art school?"

Sean chews on his lip. "No, I guess I wouldn't be."

"Then that is the situation you are in right now before you ever open the letter. That is your status quo—that you are not going to art school. Now, what is the worst thing that letter could say?"

"'Sorry, Mr. Diaz, but your art is shitty and letting you in would ruin the reputation of our school.'"

"Son. Seriously."

Sean sighs. "It could say no."

"And what happens if they say no?"

"I don't go to art school."

"How is that any different than the situation you are in right now?"

"I guess it isn't," Sean says. "Everything would be the same as before I opened it, kind of. Nothing really changes."

"Right! You might be disappointed that you are back where you started, but you would not be _worse_ off." Dad grins. "However, what is the _best_ thing that could happen?"

"They could say 'yes,'" Sean says, feeling the excitement rise in his heart. "Something really good could happen. Like, I go to art school and become a real douchey artist."

"Sometimes things _do_ work out, _mijo_," Dad says, rubbing Sean's back. "Even though they are scary before they do. However, you will never know if things have worked out like you wanted if you do not open that letter."

# # #

_Somewhere in Washington, north of the Washington/Oregon border_

_June 2025_

Sean really should be used to how quickly everything turns to bullshit by now.

He sits on the side of the road where his brother left him. The sky has darkened, and bugs have emerged from the forest to nip at the bloody scrapes on his elbows. Each of his breaths is like a crowbar prying at his chest. It doesn't hurt as much as when he got jumped in the desert, but Daniel's powers hit him like a baseball bat; when he lifts up his shirt, a faint, purple line stretches above his stomach.

Sean takes a handful of gravel, rubs it between his palms to rid them of Officer Matthews's blood, dirt washing dirt.

He _has_ to get to his sketchbook.

With it, he can change everything back. Sure, Sean will be back in prison, Dad will be dead, but Daniel will have control of his powers. He will be getting ready for college instead of a life behind bars. And, as always, protecting Daniel is the only thing that matters.

Los Angeles is almost 1,000 miles away. Sean could hop a train or hitchhike. Steal a car. Hell, his three-hundred dollars would get him there a dozen different ways. The distance isn't the hard part:

There is no way to get past the cops without Daniel's powers.

He imagines a phalanx of officers, laden with armor, brandishing RPGs as they surround the Chinese restaurant he lives above. Sean can't save his brother if he dies in a hail of gunfire.

But.

Sean's suffering would be over.

When Nicholas at Lisbeth's church put a gun to Sean's head in Haven point, Sean told him to go ahead, shoot him in the face, live with it. Sean tried to sound brave, but mostly it was despair. He had lost an eye. Had seen his brother turn away from him. Subconsciously, he knew breaking out of the hospital meant he would never be a free man in the United States.

A bullet seemed like a good excuse to lie down and take a break from all of the bullshit.

It's the same dark thoughts he had when he cut open his arm in prison.

A hundred lonely stars shine down on him, and in the dim moonlight, he can barely make out the lines of his tattoo, of the two boys and the two wolves.

_Maybe I should let Daniel take the fall this time._

It's only a thought, but it feels like a betrayal. Like he is Judas, kissing Daniel on the cheek.

_Fucking hell, Sean. How can you think that?_

_Why not, though? What is the point of me going to jail? How does that make anything better?_

_Because Daniel will not be in prison! After everything I did, all that shit . . . just to have Daniel waste away? Come on, dude, Daniel deserves to have his life._

_But . . . don't I deserve good things too?_

In the car, Daniel asked him: What about _Superwolf?_ What about Nickelodeon? What about Toby? All of that goes away if Sean goes back—not just disappears, but never happens. If Sean changes things back, he will never hear Dad say "I'm proud of you, _mijo_" again. He'll go to sleep every night on a hard cot instead of a soft bed, cold and sad, unable to sleep because his head runs this question over and over: _Is Dad proud of how I ended up?_

And he always suspects the answer is: _No_.

"I don't want to go back," Sean whispers to the stars.

_I know,_ the voice in his head says. _But your brother needs you. So you need to be strong. For him. So stop being a sorry, selfish piece of shit, Sean Diaz. Get your ass up. And save the day. _

Sean pushes himself onto his feet. His legs and ass hurt from being on the ground for—shit, he isn't sure how long he has sat here. He could head south . . . but Seattle is closer. If Daniel really confesses to everything, Sean can be back in LA in a few days to fix this. Even if the cops arrest Sean too, he can have Dad or Mom bring him the sketchbook. This play takes longer, but it's safer. Sean does no one any good if he dies, and when you can time travel, you technically have all the time in the world.

He walks north for about an hour, and he is already exhausted when the state trooper picks him up. But as he sits, handcuffed in the backseat, he knows his exhaustion is not from walking-it is that he is so tired of being brave.

After all, he isn't a superhero. He is only a kid from Seattle.

# # #

At the Seattle police station, the cops place Sean in a tiny, gray box of a room. A black security camera leers at him from the ceiling, its red light blinking. The table in front of him is barely big enough for two people to share a meal, and someone has carved _fuck_ and racial slurs into it with a pen.

Two officers in white button-downs with neckties take turns grilling him over the course of one hour? Two hours? There's no clock, so Sean could have been in here all night. The officers make threats. "You know what prison is like, son?" and Sean wills himself not to laugh. Of _course_ he knows what prison is like. Why else would he run to keep himself and his brother out of there? But the only thing Sean says, as politely as he can, is "I would rather not speak without an attorney."

Whether they release him or he goes down, he might as well be _smart_ this time, utilize those constitutional rights.

The two officers leave for the third time in the evening. Sean is handcuffed to the cold, metal chair he sits in, and if he slides the cuff up his wrist, he can cross out the older boy or the younger boy on his tattoo, yet never both at the same time. When the officers return, the huskier of the two unlocks the handcuff, which falls with a clink against the chair. "You're free to go, but keep your ass in Seattle for the next few days in case we have follow-up questions."

Sean rubs his wrist. He isn't sure how there can be "follow-ups" to questions he didn't answer. "You're not charging me with anything?"

The skinnier officer throws his hands up, and his tie flops against his chest. "Your brother confessed to everything. Said the only thing you did was drive the car because he 'coerced' you."

On instinct, Sean almost shouts, _That isn't true! I did everything! Lock me up instead of Daniel! _

But he catches himself. _Dude, this is the plan. This is how you get back to the sketchbook, so you can give Daniel his life back. _But as he follows the officers down the cramped hallway outside the interrogation room, relief floods through his body. In prison, Sean would daydream of some hero attorney showing up, announcing there was a discrepancy in his case, that Sean was free to go. Sean Diaz has been handcuffed, tied up, and locked up, but he has never been _released_.

Being released feels good.

But this freedom isn't his. It's Daniel's. And Sean doesn't deserve it more than Daniel, not after everything that has happened.

In the lobby, Dad stands up from one of the ragged, green chairs that line the wall. His eyes have dark bags beneath them, and his hair looks grayer in the fluorescent lights. "Sean, are you alright, my son?"

"I'm fine, Dad," Sean says, but his bruised ribs shoot pain through his torso when his father hugs him.

"Do you need the hospital?"

"No," Sean says. "Let's just go."

Dad lingers for a moment. He knows his younger son is in the building, probably in a holding cell. His instinct is to not leave Daniel, but Sean grabs him by the wrist, gently guides him to the door.

Dad's car is being held by the police, he explains, because the police want to search it for evidence. So in the street, Dad calls a Lyft from his phone as the lights of the city drown out the stars that stared down at Sean as he sat on the side of the road.

"But you are okay?" Dad asks, not looking up from his phone.

"Dad, yeah, I am _fine," _Sean says.

Dad turns to him, eyes narrowed. His voice is cold. "Then I do not want to hear another word from you until we get to the house."

A blue Toyota Camry pulls up to the curb, and Dad climbs into it without another word.

Of _course_ Dad is pissed, Sean thinks as he sits down in the car. Sean failed to protect his brother, and before that, Dad watched him abandon their friends and family. Who bails on people they care about? God, the way that bone stuck out of Stephen's leg . . . and the blood dripping down Lyla's face . . .

"Is everyone okay?" Sean asks as the car moves down the street.

"I would not know, Sean," Dad snaps. "I have been at a police station for the past two hours while one of my sons was being interrogated and the other one was confessing to terrorism and murder. And before that, I was dodging reporters and getting questioned by the police for things I did not have answers to."

In the front, their driver clears her throat and turns up the classical music coming through the car's speakers.

Dad sighs. "Please do not talk, Sean, until we get to the house, okay?"

"Sure," Sean says. The space between him and his father is only enough to fit one person. It's a space that Daniel could fit into, but with Daniel not here, that space might as well be a mile wide.

# # #

Orange, plastic police barricades have closed off Lewis Avenue, so the Lyft driver drops Sean and his father off on the street that runs in front of their garage. The Diazes' front yard is wrapped in yellow caution tape, and up on Lewis, three workers in blue jumpsuits stand around a cherry picker parked beside a bent telephone pole. A smell like singed-hair hangs in the air.

"I am sorry I yelled at you," Dad says in the driveway. "However, it has been a long few hours, and I do not understand your choices today, _hijo_."

"I promise I can explain everything," Sean says as they walk through the garage.

When they get upstairs, Mom is leaning on the kitchen counter, clutching a can of beer.

"Why are you still here, Karen?" Dad sighs.

"I cleaned up the glass from the broken window in Sean's room, and I figured someone should stick around in case the reporters came back or some Blue Lives Matter assholes showed up."

"I appreciate that," Dad says. "However, you can go now. You have done enough."

"I would like to know how my son is," Mom says.

"_Your_ son? _Now_ you do this?"

"I'm fine," Sean says, jumping into the tension between them. Mom and Dad never bickered in front of him when he was little, and they were getting along like old friends for Daniel's graduation. But a lot can change in one day.

The three of them go to the living room. Dad sits on the couch; Mom sits in the chair. Sean stands in front of them and feels small. As a kid, he never got in trouble big enough to have to stare down _both_ parents.

He never fucked up _this_ big.

"You want to tell us what the hell happened, Sean?" Dad asks.

Sean notices his shoelaces are frayed and that his sneakers are worn, a hole beginning to open over the toe. He should replace them. Maybe that is what he'll do before he has to go back to the life where he's locked behind bars—buy himself one last pair of skate shoes. Maybe hit a skate park. When he got yogurt with Mom last night, watching that kid made Sean wonder if he can still land a kickflip. Maybe that would be a good way to say _adios_ to this life, pretending that he is a kid again, carefree, with a future ahead of him.

Sean takes a deep breath, the kind a child takes before leaping off the high-dive for the first time. "I know this is going to be hard to believe, but that 'explosion' today? It came from Daniel. He can move things with his mind like Phoenix from the X-Men."

Mom leans forward, arms on her knees, but Dad glares at him.

"I know it sounds crazy," Sean continues. "I don't know how it works. Or _why_ he can do it. But if Daniel gets worked up, sometimes his powers just go off. And me getting shot at, and then the officer dying—that was enough to set him off today."

"Sean Eduardo Diaz, this is _not_ a time for jokes," Dad says.

"I don't think he's joking, Esteban," Mom says gently.

"You believe this, Karen?" Dad mutters. "Of course you do."

"I can prove it," Sean says. "Last time Daniel visited me in LA, I videoed him practicing his powers. He put a soda can through my wall. I tossed my phone by the driveway. I just need to get it, then I can show you."

"The police have your phone, Sean," Mom says. "Daniel's too. They thought the phones might have plans for a bomb or something."

"Shit," Sean mutters. He presses a knuckle into his forehead. Great. One more fucking problem. "Maybe it will be okay. Maybe nothing will come of it. Dammit. I do not want cops looking at my phone."

"What are you hiding on your phone?" Dad asks.

_About twenty pictures of my ding-dong because Toby and I exchanged nudes a year ago, _Sean almost says, but Dad does not look like he would appreciate sext-based humor. "If the police see the video of Daniel's powers, they might use it to lock Daniel in some Area 51-like facility. Or, more likely, the video confirms Daniel can actually do whatever crimes he confessed to." God, why did Daniel have to be such a dumbass? Daniel turning himself in was a mistake, and if only Sean had tried harder, said the right thing . . . maybe Sean could have stopped him. On the run, Sean was _always_ able to get through to Daniel. Eventually. But not now, not when it mattered. "I really fucked up this time."

"Yes, you did," Dad says. The bluntness of his words is a lead pipe crashing against Sean's ears. In high school, when Dad busted him for weed, Dad was pissed. But as Sean was getting lectured, Dad said things like _You are better than this, mijo_ or _I know you are a good kid, Sean_.

But now, there is no _I still love you, hijo_—it's only _You fucked up._

"You have a passcode on your phone, right?" Mom says. "The police can't make you give it to them without a grand jury."

"Is it you, Karen?" Dad turns towards his ex-wife. "Are you the reason this stranger is standing in front of me instead of my son? I was happy when Sean reached out to you. I wanted you to be a part of his life. However, _I_ raised our boys, and I do not appreciate you poisoning their heads with ideas about living outside the law."

"Mom didn't 'poison' anything, Dad," Sean says as Mom stares icicles into his father. "And I'm twenty-four. I'm not a kid."

Dad crosses his arms over his chest. "Oh, would an adult be here telling me make-believe while his _hermano_ is in jail?"

Sean steps backwards. "You don't believe me."

"You are asking me to believe what sounds like storylines from your _Superwolf_ comic," Dad says. "You are asking me to trust you, but how can I after what you did today?"

"I know," Sean sighs. Outside, he can hear the mechanical whir of the work crews fixing this mess he made. "I am so sorry. I wanted to tell you everything before now, before everything got fucked up. And I _begged_ Daniel not to turn himself in. But the little dude wouldn't listen. He knocked me down, and he came back here to Seattle even though—"

Dad holds up his hand like a crossing guard stopping a child from wandering into an oncoming bus. "Hold on. Just why do you think I am angry with you?"

"Because I didn't protect Daniel," Sean says, staring up at their ceiling. There's a water stain above him, a kind of ugly, brown cloud that hangs over his head. "And now Daniel is going to prison because I couldn't stop him from turning himself in."

Dad stands up, starts to say something, but instead, paces towards Daniel's bedroom then back to the living room, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Esteban, why don't you step outside?" Mom says. "You should take a moment to calm down."

"Sean, you ran away, and you made everything worse!" Dad's words hit Sean like a shotgun blast. "You had no regard for _anyone_. You moved your injured brother. You stole my car. You saw your grandparents and your friends hurt, and you left." Suddenly, Dad points his finger like a knife at Mom. "And you helped him. I could have stopped him from making this mistake if you had not held me back, so do not tell me to calm down."

"We already argued about this, Esteban," Mom says, heading for the door to the garage. "I need a smoke."

"Mom didn't do anything," Sean says as the door closes behind her. "And I did what I had to in order to protect my brother. What do you think would have happened if we had stuck around?"

"Maybe we tell the cops that we do not know what happened," Dad says. "They talk to us. They investigate. But your brother would not be spending the night in jail, looking at a prison sentence."

Sean rolls his eyes. "_Papa_, I love that you see the best in people, but maybe you didn't notice that fucking asshole tried to shoot me for having a marker. Cops aren't automatically heroes, Dad. They are another way things are fucked up for kids who are the 'wrong' color in this fucked up country. If we had stuck around, they could have shot me or Daniel. Or you. They definitely were not going to fucking let us keep living our fucking little lives."

"Do _not_ raise your voice to me, Sean Eduardo! _Soy tu padre, hijo_. And do _not_ lecture me about what it is like in this country. I immigrated here without knowing the language. I have spent nights not sleeping, sick-to-death thinking that people might hurt you or Daniel because your skin is brown or because you speak with a 'Mexican' accent. There are people who will expect you to be a thug before they know you. But do you know what you do _not_ do? You do not _act_ like a thug to prove them right."

"Oh, cool, I should just be a good person no matter how shitty the world is, huh? I should follow _all_ the rules even the fucked up ones, even if it means going hungry or getting screwed over or letting Daniel get hurt. It's okay if life kicks the shit out of me because at least 'I was a good person.' If I'm in a situation where I could go to jail for _nothing_, I should just turn myself in, right? It is more important to follow the rules than to take care of myself?"

"Sean, you are putting words in my—"

Sean cuts his father off with a laugh—a crazed, short _ha_ like a maniac's, like he has been taken over by the darkness that poured out of his fists and into Brett's face. "I tried _so hard_ to be good for you, Dad. But being good is not enough. You can be a good kid who is only looking out for his little brother . . . and it will mean _nothing_ if some assholes want to lock you in a jail cell. I _know_ I fucked up. A lot. But everything I did, every stupid, shitty thing I did was to protect Daniel."

"How does running away protect Daniel?" Dad throws his hands in the air. "It only makes you look guilty! The police would not have locked up your brother if you had not given them a reason to think you did something wrong. _You_ put Daniel and _yourself_ in danger. What if they had caught you by the car? Or on the run? They would have _shot_ you."

"They already shot at me!" Sean says. "Running had nothing to do with it because . . ." And suddenly Sean is sixteen again, standing in his front yard over an unconscious Brett Foster covered in blood. Daniel is beside him, this nine-year-old kid Sean was only trying to stand up for. Officer Matthews shows up. Pulls his gun. On a couple of kids who lived in peace . . . until hunters took their dad away. "Maybe running made me look guilty, but it doesn't matter if _they _decide you are guilty before ever setting foot in your yard. I made the best choice I could, Dad, but there wasn't a right thing to do. Because if enough people see you as a 'thug,' then nothing you do, nothing else you are matters—because they will make sure that the way they see you comes true, that being a 'thug' is all you can ever be."

"I do not know where this is coming from, _mijo_. Before today, I have only seen you as a young man I have admiration for. I have never seen you as a thug," Dad says gently. "_Mi hijo no es un ladrón sucio._"

"Yeah, I am, Dad," Sean says, rubbing his eye with his fist. "And because I fucked up, now Daniel is one too."

Dad lets out a long sigh, like he is a tire that has been punctured by a nail, driven for a hundred miles as it leaks air. "Perhaps your mother is right that this has become too heated and we are better off not talking right now." Dad stares at Daniel's bedroom door. Last night, after Sean put his drunk brother to bed, Dad said he knew he would not have many more nights with both of his boys under one roof. He must be thinking of how true that was. "I think it would be better if you stayed somewhere else tonight."

Sean blinks. "You're kicking me out of the house?"

"The window in your room is broken, Sean," Dad says.

"That isn't a 'no'."

"What do you want me to say?" Dad's voice sounds thin like tracing paper. "Daniel is in jail. I have already lost one son today. And I have such anger with you, and you keep saying things that make you sound like you are not the Sean I know. I do not want to keep talking because it makes me feel like I have lost my other son too. Obviously, I will let you stay."

"But you think it would be better if I go?"

Dad glances back at Daniel's bedroom, unable to look Sean in the eyes. But he nods.

**Soundtrack: "Daisy"**

**by Brand New**

Feeling numb, Sean goes to his bedroom. He packs his dirty clothes, grabs his tablet and the Puerto Lobos lighter from the nightstand and shoves them into his backpack. The room is drafty from the summer air that comes through the shattered window over his old desk.

It was through that window that he saw Daniel playing outside on the day life changed forever.

And if Sean returns to LA, if he changes everything back, this will be the last time he sees his father. Maybe—maybe if Sean explains how he can fix things, Dad won't be mad.

But when Sean comes out of his room, backpack over his shoulders, Dad isn't there. Dad's bedroom door is shut. Sean stands in front of it for a long time, but he cannot bring himself to knock. He thinks he hears his father crying.

The last time he heard his father cry was after Mom left them. Then, Sean had crawled into the bed, wrapped his arms around his father and said, "_Esta bien, papito._"

And dad had held him, like a drowning man clings to a life preserver. "_Gracias, mijo._"

But tonight, Sean does not think he would here "thank you" or even be called "my son" if he passes through this doorway.

So instead, Sean pushes open the door to Daniel's room. By the bed is the backpack—same model as Sean's, same model as Brody's—that Sean got Daniel for his sixteenth birthday. It's packed with clothes for the week they were going to spend together in Los Angeles. On the dresser is the picture of the family of wolves, the youngest in the center, that Sean drew two Christmases ago—the image Daniel was going to get tattooed over his heart to match his dad and brother. "Don't worry, little cub," Sean whispers. "I won't let them keep you in a cage."

Outside, in the driveway, Mom stomps out her cigarette when she sees him. She says her motel room has an extra bed and that Sean can stay with her. She assures him his father is exhausted from everything, that he still loves Sean and nothing can change that.

But it feels like maybe Sean _has_ changed that.

"So that thing you told me last night about using time travel to stop Daniel from killing a cop," Mom says. "That wasn't a joke, was it?"

"I wish it was." The smoke from Mom's cigarette still hangs in the air as Sean stares at the busted-ass shoes on his feet. His vision blurs as he looks up at the house. He has to go back to LA. He has to fix everything. The kid from Seattle has to save his brother.

But, shit. Once again, he isn't even getting to say goodbye. However, once he gets back to prison, and he is lying on his cot, maybe this question will no longer keep him up: _Is Dad proud of how I ended up?_

Because now he feels like he has an answer: _No, he isn't_.

* * *

_well if we take all these things _

_and we bury them fast_

_and we pray that they'll turn into seeds, _

_to roots and then grass_

_it'd be all right it's all right _

_it'd be easier that way_

_or if the sky opened up_

_and started pouring rain_

_like he knew it was time_

_to start things over again_

_it'd be all right, it's all right_

_it'd be easier that way_


	48. Episode Four: The Storm - Fifteen

_Seattle, Washington_

_August 2025_

_Two months after the deaths of Kindred Matthews and Brett Foster_

Sean stands on the steps of the courthouse. His throat is tight, but loosening his blue necktie does not help him breathe easier. The afternoon sun batters him with its rays, but he was sweating through his dress shirt before he stepped outdoors. Being inside a courtroom again, the banging of the gavel, that dusty smell that hangs in the air—it reminded him of his _own_ trial, which was one of the Five Worst Days of His Life until today knocked it off the list.

Daniel pled guilty. To everything.

And when the judge sentenced Daniel to life without parole, Daniel's shoulders slumped, like he had melted under the ill-fitting suit Sean and their father had bought him from JC Penny. Baby-faced Daniel not looking back as the bailiff cuffed him, as he walked head down to be locked up with murderers and rapists—that image will always be tattooed in Sean's brain.

Like, _fuck_.

Sean fumbles in his pocket for a package of cigarettes. The cellophane crinkles as he unwraps it, and he taps the box against his palm.

Dad appears, almost from nowhere, like he was camouflaged by his sadness. "Did you start smoking again, Sean?"

"I picked these up at a gas station near my hotel," Sean says. "Not sure why. I haven't smoked a cigarette since college."

"It has been even longer for me," Dad says. "Do you mind if I have one?"

Sean hands his dad a cigarette and lights it for him. Dad smiles, maybe his first smile in two months, seeing the Puerto Lobos lighter Sean cups in his hands, the lighter given to Sean over a decade ago. Sean lights and drags his own cigarette, but the smoke burns as it claws its way down his throat.

This is the most Sean has talked to his dad outside of short text messages in two months. Back in June, Sean lost his brother _and_ father, the two people he would have burned the world down to save. And so there are dozens of things Sean _wants_ to say from_ I'm sorry_ to _Do you hate me?_ but simply sharing space with his father feels like a fragile gift.

However, there is something about smoking a cigarette with Dad that feels wrong, like swearing in front of preschoolers.

Dad releases a long, black cloud of smoke from the depths of his lungs that curls above their heads until it dissipates in the breeze. "I told you that you did not have to come today, Sean."

"I needed to be here," Sean coughs, and he bends down to snuff his cigarette against the concrete. He tosses it into the trashcan at the bottom of the stairs near the sidewalk, and he watches the cars of the mid-day Seattle traffic move through the stoplight in front of him.

Whenever Sean got locked up, it felt like time _stopped_. But time didn't. People are out here going about their lives, going to work, going to lunch. Nothing stopped just because his life did.

The world doesn't even notice that Daniel's life is over, and that is fucked up.

Dad finishes his cigarette and tosses the butt into the trashcan. The gray of his hair has overtaken the black, and messy stubble covers his face. His eyelids sag, and he looks old, beaten down. But he is too nice to say that he does not want to be out here with the son that fucked up while his other son is locked up, so he stares at the traffic too.

"So, uh, is it cool if I call you next week?" Sean says after a while. "Maybe we could video chat."

"Of course you can call," Dad says. "It is your birthday. I want to talk to you on your birthday."

"Okay. Cool. Thanks." Sean pulls out his cell phone and opens the Lyft app to call a ride. "I should let you get home to rest."

"I think we should go out," Dad says. "Right now. For your birthday."

"We don't have to," Sean says, surprised. "I mean, I would _love_ to spend time with you, Pops, but . . . "

"I will not get to see you next week on your actual birthday."

"Are you sure? I get that this is a weird day. It's cool if this is not the best time."

"We both need to eat," Dad says. "And I could use a drink. You only turn twenty-five once, and maybe we can do something to make this not be the _worst_ day. Come on. I will drive, _mijo_."

The keys jingle as Dad flips them around his finger, and Sean feels his dad's palm against his back, except it lacks any energy or real affection. But Dad calls him "_mijo,_" and Sean was not sure his dad would refer to him as "my son" ever again, so . . .

So he agrees to get an early-birthday dinner with his dad on the day his little brother is condemned to life in prison.

# # #

When Sean was a teenager, Dad would use car rides to pry into Sean's personal life. _How was your math test? How was the concert with Lyla? What were you and Ellery laughing about? Any girls you are interested in? _As a kid, he found the barrage of questions irritating; now, he would give _anything_ to break the silence as Dad drives to the wings place a few blocks away . . . because the lack of talking feels suffocating.

At the restaurant, Sean and his dad sit in the bar section. It's past the lunch hour and not quite dinnertime, so only a couple of tables have people, one with guys in dusty overalls and another with a man and a woman in baseball jerseys. Sean and his father are in shirts and ties, so Sean feels out of place. Who dresses up for bar food? They probably look like they have come from a funeral, which isn't far from the truth.

Sean pushes one of his hot wings around in its sauce. Normally, Dad would be complaining that the food is not spicy enough and Sean would tease him about ordering from the 'medium' section of the sauce menu. These moments with Dad feel precious and fleeting, and Sean _wants_ to talk but has nothing Dad would want to hear. Most of Sean's personal life is his friends checking in on him and him lying about being 'okay' when really he is getting high too frequently. Work is kinda shitty. The show has lousy ratings, and there's a rumor his supervisor Jared is looking for another job. And some conservative asshole made a blog post about how the show employs the brother of a cop killer, so they keep getting these poorly-written letters from dickheads demanding Sean be fired. Jared says he has Sean's back . . . but if Jared leaves, who knows what happens. And worst of all, Sean cannot talk to his therapist about any of this. He told her about the other life, that he went to jail for his brother after their dad died—how can he now say his brother is the one going to prison and that things are tense with their dad?

It's a lot of shit that he wishes he could talk to his father about, but his dad is staring at the bottom of a beer, oblivious to even his favorite baseball team playing on the televisions above their heads.

"So . . . Toby got offered a job at Disney," Sean says.

"Is this the Toby that you dated in school?" Dad asks, his finger drawing a line through the condensation on his beer mug. "I liked Toby. I was sad when you broke up."

"I was sad too," Sean says. "But we broke up because we worked in different cities. So if we both work in Los Angeles, then. . . I guess it doesn't mean we _will_ get back together, but—"

Suddenly, Dad sets his forehead in his hand, and his body shakes with a sob. He apologizes, takes a breath, but another sob wracks his body. And then he is crying, hands covering his face, trying to hold back tears that pour out of his eyes and into his messy beard like a storm drain overflowing.

Sean walks around the table and embraces his father. Dad feels like bones wrapped in paper, and he trembles against Sean's arms and chest. So Sean hugs him harder, presses his face into the back of his dad's neck as the handful of people in the sports bar stare.

"_Esta bien, papito,_" Sean whispers. "_Esta bien._"

"_No esta bien_, _hijo,_" Dad mutters. "_Nada esta bien_."

And Sean sighs. Because Dad is right—_nothing_ is okay.

But it _can_ be.

Sean can make it okay.

# # #

When Sean gets to his hotel room, he throws his tie onto the shitty green carpet and yanks _the_ sketchbook from his backpack. The sketchbook's familiar, beat-to-hell cover is smooth against his fingers, and he sits down on the bed and turns to the image he drew of his childhood bedroom on October 28, 2016.

And he does what he has done every night for the past two months:

He stares at the image. Traces every line with his eyes. Absorbs every detail.

And he swears that tonight, he is really going to do it. He is going to go back in time and fix everything back to the way it was.

And like always, he doesn't.

Tonight, Daniel is spending his first night in prison. Sean knows how cold and frightening that first night is; on his own first night, he felt a chill that drilled into his organs, was unable to sleep as each noise sounded like a threat. But Sean had also spent over a year in juvie, had been hardened by the difficult shit that had happened to him on the run. Daniel is going into a world of concrete walls and brutal guards without any scars, no calluses to shield his heart. Daniel is naïve and vulnerable, and prison preys on the naïve and vulnerable.

The _world_ preys on the naïve and vulnerable.

Hot bile rises in Sean's throat, and he barely makes it to the bathroom in time to vomit hot wings and beer into the toilet.

And when he comes back, a bitter acid taste in his mouth, the sketchbook is still open on the bed. The past and the solution, staring up from the pages at him.

He knows exactly what he needs to do to save his brother.

But, like every night for the past two months, he is not brave enough to do it.


	49. Episode Four: The Storm - Sixteen

In Sean's dream, he is in the parking lot of the California beach he and Daniel stopped at on their road trip two years ago. Sixteen-year-old Daniel sits on the trunk of Dad's car, hair damp, wearing the shorts he swam in. Sean draws the family of wolves on Daniel's chest, but instead of using a sharpie, Sean has a real tattoo gun.

When Sean finishes his drawing, he steps back, admires his work and smiles.

"You did a good job, Sean," Daniel says, looking over his fresh ink. "You always do a good job. I'm sorry I only cause you trouble and ruin your life."

"You don't ruin anything," Sean says. "You're my brother, _enano_."

"Then why don't you come get me?" a voice says behind Sean.

When Sean turns, suddenly he is in the motel where he told Daniel about their powers and the other life. And standing by the bed is a second Daniel, this one nine-years-old, wearing the blue flannel stained with fake blood from the day their dad died. "You left me in prison. I'm scared, Sean."

"I will save you. I promise."

Sean starts to go to him, but the teenaged Daniel, the tattooed Daniel, grabs Sean's shoulder. "You shouldn't, Sean.

"But it's my fault," Sean says. "I'm the reason everything got messed up. I changed the past, and you went to jail, and—"

Tattooed Daniel shakes his head. "I turned myself in. I gave you the sketchbook back in the first place." He glances at the nine-year-old version of himself. "You have to let him—you have to let me go."

"I can't do that," Sean says.

Tattooed Daniel walks behind the younger version, sets a hand on the boy's shoulder.

Nine-Year-Old Daniel sniffles. Tears pour down his face. "_Please_, Sean," the boy whimpers. "Please come save me."

"No, Sean, it's time to save yourself," Tattooed Daniel says. "I promise I am strong enough to handle this."

But then blood slides out of the older Daniel's left eye. The flow increases, and the eye liquefies and falls into Younger Daniel's hair. The Younger Daniel's eye also turns red, and, as he continues to cry, the eye flows away with his tears. Short, paper-thin red stains bleed through the boy's shirt, and the same cuts appear on the older Daniel's chest and arms.

Sean recognizes them as the scars he had himself in the other life.

Suddenly, metal bars shoot up from the floor, surround both Daniels in a cage as a metal roof clamps down on top of it. The tattoo on the older Daniel's chest also begins to bleed, and now its like his life is oozing out of him. The skin of both Daniels dries up, they crumple like paper, until they disappear into nothing.

Sean wakes up in his bed in Los Angeles, fully dressed, and drenched in sweat. In his hands, he clutches the sketchbook, and it's opened to the drawing he did in the motel outside of Away—the one of Daniel sitting on the bed, the Power Bear toy beside him, the image Sean used to prove he could travel through time. Paper clipped to the page is the photo that used to be above his desk, the one of him and Daniel shirtless-flexing in the mirror, the wolf tattoo sharpied onto Daniel's chest.

In the photo, they both look happy and free.

# # #

The months after Daniel's sentencing blur together.

Sean helps Toby move in to a tiny apartment in Los Angeles, and they fool around on an air mattress that deflates beneath them as they both laugh. They hang out a lot, but neither of them brings up "defining" their "relationship."

At work, Sean is bumped up to designing background characters and even gets to storyboard one of the episodes. Often, he goes out for drinks with his coworkers who expend effort into getting him to smile. Sometimes he forces a laugh so they don't feel bad.

The _Superwolf_ comic keeps going, but the readers complain the storylines have grown "too dark" and hope there can be a happy ending to the current arc—but Sean is not sure how that is possible.

As for Dad, he and Sean talk once a week. Mostly, it is short, awkward text messages, but sometimes Sean calls or they videochat. They have uncomfortable start-and-stop conversations filled with the unspoken agreement to never discuss Daniel.

But every night—often while Sean is drunk or high, sometimes while Toby sleeps in his bed—Sean tries to fix his mistake. He cannot bring himself to go back to the other life, so instead, Sean searches his sketchbooks for a better choice. He has about twelve sketchbooks that chronicle his life since he was sixteen to about three months before Daniel's graduation. He went through these when he first arrived in this timeline and tried to piece together his new life.

Back then, he did not understand his relationship with his brother; now, he looks for a way to save Daniel.

Sean travels to 2018, to the skate park where he hangs out with Ellery, Lyla, and Adam days before graduation.

He visits 2022 and a beach bonfire where he sits next to Sarah with Olivia, Pete, and Toby as they listen to Diego exaggerate stories about a digital design professor.

He goes back to 2023, to his apartment, empty, on his first day in Los Angeles.

As he Billy Pilgrims through his life, he leaves himself messages. Notes in his phone, scribbles on sticky notes or his hand. He calls and texts his father and brother. Tries to warn himself and anyone around that Daniel's graduation party ends in disaster.

But every time he returns to the present, nothing has changed. The cop and Brett are still dead. Daniel is still in jail.

This is one action that cannot be undone . . . unless he goes back to that day that started it all. So every night, after he fails to save his brother, he stares at the picture of his bedroom the he drew on October 28, 2016, until his eyes ache like his heart, which is pained from letting everyone down.

# # #

Sean's Wednesday-night call from Daniel is sacred, a ritual that his coworkers and Toby know not to question.

However, the call is like being handed dirty water after crossing a desert. Daniel is Sean's favorite person, and not being able to text him randomly _does_ feel like Sean's heart is separated from his body. But Daniel's voice—the façade of strength that Sean easily sees through—betrays that the light inside Daniel is dimming. And so Sean lives for the calls even as they leave a bitter, acrid taste in the back of his throat.

Daniel never should have sacrificed his freedom, especially not for Sean's mistakes. Sean cost his brother everything.

So each Wednesday before they hang up, there are dozens of things Sean almost says:

_I'm sorry._

_I didn't want this for you._

_I promise I will fix this._

_I don't—I don't know why I haven't fixed this already._

But instead, he only says _Te quiero mucho, enano_—and feels like a giant piece of shit.

# # #

Then, on the first Wednesday of July, Sean wakes up to his milk having spoiled and his cabinet barren of coffee. He chokes down dry cereal and walks out the door with a caffeine deficiency. A protest is happening downtown, so he is mashed against too-many other humans on the bus. Work begins with an hour-long meeting that could have been an email, and, great, now Sean is even _further_ behind on some designs due last week. He spills coffee on his new shirt—a plaid button-down with pearl snaps—and he burns his chest. Worst of all, Jared announces he is leaving the show. So there goes Sean's cool boss, and, also, probably a clear sign their show is getting canned.

Granted, this is not a "bad day" compared to _most_ of Sean Diaz's life. No trauma. No scars. A ruined shirt is not the same as losing an eye.

But it _is_ an objectively shitty day.

However, after Sean gets home and verifies the red burn mark beside the wolf tattoo on his chest, he cracks open a beer and forces himself to smile.

Daniel will call any minute. And Sean cannot let his brother think that sacrificing his freedom is not appreciated.

Sean's most-of-the-way through his beer when the phone rings with a number from Washington. When he answers, an automated voice says, "An inmate is calling you from Washington State Penitentiary. Would you like to accept this call?"

Sean says he accepts, and he hears Daniel's voice on the other line.

"Hey! How are you doing, little brother?" Sean asks, grinning.

"I'm whatever," Daniel says quietly, and he muddles through small talk. Asks about Nickelodeon and _Superwolf_. Sean lies and says everything is good, everything is great until Daniel laughs. "You're full of shit, Sean."

"What?" Sean says.

"I know everything isn't sunshine and roses," Daniel says. "None of our conversations are honest. You always put up this wall of bullshit."

"That isn't—" Sean sighs and drops his empty beer bottle into the recycling bin; it clinks against the rest of the trash. "I don't want to bum you out."

"I'm in prison," Daniel says. "I don't think you could tell me anything that would 'bum' me out. But I get it. I don't always tell you everything either."

"I know." Sean's unbuttoned shirt rustles behind him like a cape as he grabs a second beer from the fridge. He pops open the cap and leans on his kitchen counter. "In that other life, I always kept prison-things from you. I know some dark shit goes on in there. But if you want to talk about it, like, I am the person who would understand."

Daniel is quiet for a while, and the raucous sounds of prison chatter and prison _clangs_ fill the phone speaker. "You did four years before you changed the past, right? How did you get by?"

Sean sticks his finger in the mouth of his beer, spins it against his kitchen counter. The answer is that he _didn't_ get by—he tried to kill himself. And he has never told Daniel that.

"Sean?"

"I, uh, kept my head down. Stayed out of trouble. Drew a lot. Just tried to get through."

"Did you have any—maybe not _friends_, but . . . did you have anyone watching your back?"

"My cellmate Troy was cool," Sean says. "I had some guys I ate meals with. Mostly, I kept to myself."

"I've met Troy. He _is_ cool," Daniel says, and then he is silent for long enough that Sean downs enough beer his arms begin to tingle. "I want to talk to you about something, Sean, but you have to promise not to overreact."

"There has never been a good conversation that starts that way," Sean says.

Daniel sighs into the phone. "I just spent five days in solitary."

Sean coughs, and his nasal cavity burns as beer simultaneously shoots up his nose and out his mouth, splattering against his hand and dripping to the floor. "What the fuck? Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?"

"Hurt myself? No, I'm fine, I got put there because . . . it's not a big deal, but some asshole thought I looked small and wanted to fuck with me. He startled me, and I sort of blew him backwards in the yard. I don't think I hurt him, but the guards thought I started something. It was bullshit."

"Dude, you have to be careful," Sean says. "But I'm glad you're okay. Don't . . . don't let people fuck with you."

"I _am_ careful," Daniel says. "But I got out this morning, and some _guys _approached me."

Sean wipes beer out of the trail of hair on his stomach. "Daniel, what kind of guys are we talking about?"

"You know, _guys_," Daniel says. "The kind of guys who could use some 'muscle'."

Sean presses the lip of his beer bottle against his head, paces his tiny apartment from the fridge to his bed, back again, then slams the bottle onto the counter. "Are you talking about joining a gang? A fucking prison gang?"

"When you say it like that, it sounds bad."

"It _is_ bad."

"I'm talking about having some people to watch my back," Daniel says. "Having what passes for 'friends' in here."

"It is a fucking gang, _enano_!"

"Don't talk to me like I'm a little kid, Sean," Daniel says. "You know me. It's not like I'm going to hurt people. Just scare them a little."

"And how are you going to scare them without hurting them, dude?" Sean says. "This is a slippery slope. This is not who we are. You and me, we are better than this."

"Are we? You _know _how shitty it is in here—"

"I do, bro, and—"

"—and being 'good' makes sense if you are only serving fifteen years. But, Sean, this is the _rest of my life_. My fate literally does not change whether I am doing gang shit or not. What is wrong with me trying to make life a little better for myself? What am I supposed to do, be alone in here until I die?"

"Dude, you're not alone. You got dad. You got me."

"You are out _there_," Daniel says, and for an instant, he lets a crack creep into his voice. "And I am _glad_ that you are out there. I imagine you living your life, becoming this bigshot animator. Maybe _Superwolf_ finally becomes a show. Maybe you get married and have kids or adopt them or . . . whatever, you do something to make me 'Uncle Daniel.' I think about you being free, and that gets me through the day. But . . . I need to look out for myself in here too."

"Joining a gang is not a way to do that, _mi hermanito._"

"I knew I shouldn't have told you," Daniel sighs. "This is why we don't talk about real shit."

"This is exactly why we should talk about real shit."

"Whatever. I should go."

Sean begs him not to hang up. Says they can talk about something else. They still have a few precious minutes in their call, but Daniel says, no, he would really rather this conversation be over.

"Okay," Sean says, and he pauses. There are dozens of things he wants to say. Instead, he says, "_Te quiero mucho, enano._ Don't do anything stupid."

"_Te quiero mucho también_," Daniel says. Then he adds. "And you better not do anything stupid either."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"You know _exactly_ what I am fucking talking about."

"I won't," Sean lies, as they hang up.

Sean downs the rest of his beer and grabs the cheap rum from his freezer. He presses the cold bottle to his lips, coughing as the liquid courage burns his throat. Head buzzing, he sits down at his desk, opens the sketchbook to the image of his 2016 bedroom and swears that this time he is really fucking going to do it.

And he stares.

And drinks.

And stares.

And drinks.

Until his eyes dry and the lines blur . . . but he cannot bring himself to go back in time.

"Fuck!" He hurls the sketchbook. It punctures his poster of _luchadores_ _Pentagón Jr. _and _Rey Fénix_ like a shuriken, and it sticks in the wall. Sean thinks, _Holy shit—how hard did I throw that?_

But then he remembers—no, last time Daniel visited, Daniel made that hole with his powers. The sketchbook is stuck in a hole that was already there, back from when Sean thought he could get away with everything.

Sean falls onto his bed, presses his face into a pillow, and screams screams _screams_ until his lungs hurt. Everything is such bullshit. Why does the universe care so much that the Diaz brothers are in prison? Why does he have to be punished for wanting to give his brother a good life? For wanting to be close to his family? Why is the universe so fucking goddamn unfair that his life _must_ be ruined by some asshole with a badge?

_Then again_, Sean thinks as he lifts his face from the now-damp pillow, _maybe the only asshole ruining my life is me. _

Sean's mind is thick with booze. He sits up, but he needs someone to talk to. His thumb stumbles through his contacts until he finds Max Caulfield and texts: _Time travel is such bullshit why is life such bullshit Max?_

_Do you want to talk?_ Max texts back. _I'm tired of messing with Photoshop and need a break._

After Sean says sure, his phone rings. He's drunk enough that he's confused about why Max Caulfield is facetiming him, but he answers, and she shows up on the screen. Her freckled cheeks are washed in orange light from a lamp on the desk her webcam sits on.

"Your hair," Sean says. "It's not blue."

Max pulls at a strand of light-brown hair that hangs over her ear. "I thought it was time to be something other than blue."

"Is that your natural hair color?" Sean says. "I like it. It's cool. Your hair is cool."

"So I didn't realize this was going to be a 'sexy' Facetime," Max laughs.

Sean blinks, and he looks down. His shirt is still unbuttoned, so his chest is exposed. "Shit. I spilled coffee on myself and my AC is shitty and I get hot when I'm drinking and I've _been_ drinking, Max. I'm sorry you saw my nipples. I'm not that kind of slut."

"It's cool. I like your wolf tattoo."

"_Gracias, chica. Es para mi familia_." Sean grabs his bottle of rum from the desk, holds it up as a kind of salute. He sniffles. Rambles about his family and how he loves them, even Mom and Claire and Stephen, but especially Dad and Daniel, and how he has let them down—he's let them all down. Max listens, doesn't laugh or roll her eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to dump all of my shit on you."

"Well, we kind of only talk to each other for shit-dumping sessions," Max says. "Also, literally everything you just said was in Spanish, and my _español_ is not _bueno_."

"Shit. I didn't notice. Did I mention I'm kinda drunk?"

"You did, but it is also _pretty_ obvious." Max chuckles. "I'm going to get some wine, so I can try to catch up to you. Be right back."

Max's computer chair gently rotates clockwise as she gets up, and the wall behind it is covered in photographs. Most of them look like Max's own photography, that style of everyday images shot with ache and melancholy. But there is one photo of two girls—awkward, baring the full assault of puberty—wearing pirate hats.

They smile like their hearts are sewn together. For some reason, it makes Sean happy and sad at the same time.

Max sits back down with a box of wine, which she lifts up and pours directly into her mouth.

"Whoa, rough day, wine mom?" Sean asks.

"Rough life," Max says. "You don't get to judge, rummy."

"Fair enough." Sean's head spins a little, but the rum he swallows doesn't burn his throat anymore.

"So . . . I saw what happened with your brother. I meant to text you. That sucks, man."

"You were right, Max. About everything. I didn't settle for my stupid _C_-minus life and then a storm came, and now my brother is paying for it. You're talking to the King of Assholes. Daniel being in jail is _worse_ than me being in jail, but I can't—I can't change things back because I'm either a pussy or a piece of shit, maybe both."

"I don't think you are either of those things, Sean Diaz," Max says. "I think you're a pretty good dude who has had _a lot_ of shit dumped on him."

"I think you're a pretty good dude too. Or a good lady. Person? Whatever, you're cool, Max, and I'm sorry you've had to deal with shit too." Sean stares up at the ceiling and lets out a breath that whistles over the lip of his liquor bottle. "Can you talk to me about Chloe? Like, how were you able to be so selfless?"

"Selfless?" Max says, her eyebrow rising.

"Like, how did you choose to save everyone _but_ her? Fuck. That's shitty of me to ask. You don't have to answer. I'm sorry. I'm an asshole."

"You're not an asshole," Max says with a weak smile. "I don't think I _was_ selfless. A giant vortex was barreling down on our town. It would have killed all of our friends and Chloe's mom. Chloe _begged_ me to save the town. As much as it hurts to miss her, saving Chloe would have been cruel. To her. Sacrificing _everything_ for one person? All of that death? She would have felt responsible for it, and I don't think our relationship could have survived under that weight."

Max's mic picks up her wine sloshing against its box as she takes a drink. "You know, I was back in Arcadia Bay last year," she says, "and I ran into Chloe's mom. She's back with David Madsen."

"Oh yeah?" Sean says. "I met him! Did I tell you this?"

"Ha, you did. You texted me about him a couple of years ago, and I told you he was a douchebag. He was a real dick to Chloe when we were kids. But I spent an hour talking to him and Joyce, and you were right—he's changed. I left Chloe's house, and I realized . . . I had move away from Arcadia Bay, but I was still living there. Like, I was still looking backwards, stuck in the past, like I was trying to change it." Max's fingers pull at a strand of her now-brown hair, sliding down it the way hands climb a rope. "I know we have these abilities, but you're not _supposed_ to change the past. You're supposed to let the past change you. And the things that happen to us, those things might be good or they might be real fucking terrible, but we can't change them—but we _can_ control how _we_ change—or don't. Does that make sense? I feel like the wine is already hitting me."

Sean points a finger at his phone. "Ha! You're a lightweight!"

"Full disclosure, if I seem 'emo'—I got dumped last night."

"Shit, Max, I'm sorry," Sean says, leaning with his elbows on his knees. "You want me to beat them up? I'll kick their ass for you."

"We dated for almost a year," Max says, chewing on her lip. "And right now I am . . . sad. Like, really _fucking_ sad. But also okay. And a little proud? I had a relationship with someone, and, like, wowzers, it was pretty good overall, and I made it work for a good while. I didn't think I could do that. I spent years thinking that after all the shit that happened in Arcadia Bay I was too broken and forever would be . . .but it turns out I'm not as broken as I thought I was."

"I hear what you're saying," Sean says, and he stares at his tattoo of the two boys followed by the wolves, on the arm that used to have a tattoo drawn by the girl who took his virginity, a girl who is (probably) dead. "I think I _am_ broken, though. I got too many scars. Too many at once. And I think those are always going to be with me, even if I cover them up."

"Oh, scars don't go away," Max says. "However, scars both are signs you have been hurt . . . and signs that you have put yourself back together. I thought the bad things that happened to me had weakened me, but I forgot—I had to be strong to survive them in the first place. And, dude, what happened to you was _a lot_ worse than what I went through."

"It's not a competition. It's not, like, the Masochism Olympics," Sean mutters.

"What I'm getting at is . . . I know you got hurt. I know it was painful. But, buddy, you survived _all_ of it. Don't get so caught up in how much things hurt that you forget you are really, _really_ strong. You're not a pussy. Or a piece of shit."

Sean rests his lips on the bottle of rum. It's warm from hugging it against his bare chest. "I'm not strong, though," Sean says. "I'm not strong enough to save my brother. When we were on the run, I used to tell him this story about 'The Wolf Brothers' to make him less scared. It was about us. I think in the back of my mind, I always knew the story wouldn't have a happy ending. But I wanted one, Max. I wanted one so bad that when I realized I had powers, I—I tried to rewrite it. But I made the ending worse. I think coming here, to this life, was a mistake. I'm not 'surviving' this pain. It's weakening me. And now I can't do the right thing, when the right thing has never been clearer."

"Well, let me ask you this, Sean, and I will not judge you, no matter the answer," Max says, resting her chin against her fists. "Do you _have_ to change things back?"

Sean pulls his feet onto the bed, sits criss-cross-applesauce like a little kid as he squeezes his toes through his sock, which _always_ grosses him out when Daniel does it. "Yeah, I do," he says. "Objectively, the other life is better for everyone. My grandparents and best friend don't talk to me here because they got hurt. A bunch of people who helped us in the other life are dead. And Daniel has _life_ in prison. I'm only doing, like, fifteen years. When he called me tonight, my good-hearted brother was talking about joining a gang, so . . . yeah, I have to go back, Max. I don't get it, though. Why do we have these abilities if we can't make things better or help the people we care about? What is the point?"

"I don't think life has a point other than the meanings we create for it." Max stares off to the side, her fingers drumming against her box of wine. "My powers caused me pain. A lot of pain. And sometimes, I think about what happened, and I get so _angry_ at the world. But . . . my friendship with Chloe had gotten pretty rocky before I found her dying on that bathroom floor. If that had been it, I would have had so many regrets. Feelings never shared. My powers let me have more time with her, let me say the things I hadn't said, and when I left her, we were in a better place." Max takes a swig from the box of wine. "Also, we stopped my photography teacher from murdering people."

Sean blinks. "I'm sorry, did you say your _teacher_ was _murdering_ people?"

"Yeah, it was a thing. Look up Mark Jefferson sometime," Max says. "But the thing is, when I think of my powers as 'changing the past' they make me angry. Because all changing the past did was hurt me. But I've started to think of my powers more as 'being given more time.' And when I do that, they don't seem pointless. I got more time with Chloe, and that's . . . more time with someone you love, that's pretty cool, y'know?"

Sean digs a knuckle into his eye and nods. When he arrived in this new life, he called his dad, heard Dad's voice for the first time in years, and breaking down outside his life-drawing class might have been the best day of Sean's life.

"So if you are dead set on going back," Max says, "then you should think about the things you can't do in that other life. Who is the person you can't talk to? Make a point to talk to them, hang out with them, say what you need to. Because that's what your gift is. It isn't changing the past because the past can't change, not really. Your gift is more time, a second chance—even if you still have to say goodbye. It might hurt, but you can choose to make all of this mean something."

"Thanks, Max," Sean says, drying his cheek on his shirt. "You're like a superhero, you know? You're awesome."

"You're awesome, too—honestly, you're probably _more_ awesome," Max says. "Good luck, Sean Diaz. I hope 'The Wolf Brothers' have a better ending this time."

"I'm not sure how," Sean chuckles. "I'm still worried it might be a little worse."

# # #

After he says goodbye to Max, Sean flips through the sketchbook that came with him from the other life. And . . . there's a lot of shitty things in here. Dad dying, obviously. Being in a coma after losing an eye. Getting attacked at the gas station and in the desert. But there's also the kindness of Brody. And the generosity of Claire and Stephen. Chris. And Finn, Cassidy, Penny, and the others in California. There was Joey. And Mom. Danger might have always followed them, but there were lights in that darkness—always people good enough to help.

And, maybe best of all, Sean got to hang out with a pretty cool little dork named Daniel.

When he reaches the last page, the one with the motel near Away and the douchey shirtless selfie paperclipped at the top, Sean closes the book and calls his Dad.

"Sean?" Dad says. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, I just—" Sean glances at the clock on his laptop. "Shit, I didn't realize it was so late. I'm sorry, Pops. I can call tomorrow."

"Have you been drinking?"

"Yeah, but I'm not drunk," Sean says, but when he stands up, the room spins. "Okay, I'm still a _little_ drunk."

Dad yawns. "Did you have something you wanted to talk with me about?"

"I did. You know how my birthday is next month? I know you _know_ it's my birthday, but I mean—I want to come up. I want to spend the whole day with you, just you and me. Can we do that for my birthday?"

Dad is quiet for a moment, long enough Sean expects him to say no. But instead, he says, "Of course, _mijo_. I would love to spend my son's birthday with him."

"Awesome," Sean says. "That's awesome. You're awesome. And, Dad?"

"Yes, Sean?"

"_Te quiero_, you know? _Mucho y siempre._"

"I know, Sean," Dad says. _"Te quiero mucho también. Siempre_."

After they hang up, Sean clutches his phone to his chest. He has a little over a month before he changes everything back. Before his life ends once again.

But this time he knows it's coming. And this time he gets to say goodbye.


	50. Episode Four: The Storm - Seventeen

With about a month left in this life where he is free, Sean still shows up to his job every day. Technically, if he is changing everything back after his birthday, he _could_blow off work and bills, but working makes him proud. And his coworkers comment that grumpy-storm-cloud Sean is suddenly the office's beam of sunshine.

But besides work, Sean Diaz _carpes_-the-shitout of some _diems_.

In the mornings, he runs. He is woefully out-of-shape, but after a week, his lungs no longer scream "We want to die!" as his heart explodes, and he begins to feel that "runner's high" he would get in high school.

He visits art museums. One in particular, he visits three days in a row and literally sees everything in it, and it feels like completing a grand quest from one of the fantasy books he read as a kid.

He still gets high but _intentionally_, no longer to escape life but to savor it. His best time is a trip to the planetarium, where a presentation on constellations makes him feel like he is walking among the stars. And then he goes out to the balcony, stares out over the lights of the city and feels connected, like everything in life has _meaning_.

He splurges on a pair of skate shoes that he would have longed for in high school; back then, he settled for cheap pairs of Vans, since that is all Dad could afford. And he does not care if the shoes get messed up by puddles or daily life, so he wears the _fuck_ out of them. Sean goes to a skate park, and after fifty minutes, popping his pinkie back into socket, and almost rolling his ankle, he lands a kickflip. Hells yeah.

When Misty Mice plays a show at a small club in downtown, Sean lets himself become part of the music as he sweats and dances against strangers as the thrashing guitars and drums wash over him. He almost texts Lyla about it . . . but remembers she, like Claire and Stephen, hate him for what happened at Daniel's graduation. But it's okay. In the other life, he is cool with all of them. He'll call Lyla, first thing, and then insist Daniel bring their grandparents for a visit. That one will work itself out.

But Sean _does_ call Ellery. It starts as a message on social media to find out if the dude has the same number. Ellery is shocked to hear from him, and though the conversation starts awkwardly, rusty from years of neglecting their relationship, they end up talking for two hours because Ellery is Sean's oldest friend and some good things aren't taken away—they only disappear for a while.

Sean eats at his favorite restaurants and tips more than he can afford. He listens to his favorite albums and watches his favorite movies. He walks barefoot along the beach and howls, like he did on his first day after changing the past. Mostly, he lives the normal life that he yearned for from prison.

Obviously, a month isn't time for _everything_. But, as Sean goes to bed exhausted each night, he feels at peace.

And, after all that has happened before and knowing what will come next, every night of peace is priceless.

# # #

A few days before Sean leaves for Seattle to spend his twenty-sixth birthday with Dad, Toby comes over with sushi and a bottle of champagne. Toby is _appalled_ Sean has never had champagne and refills Sean's red solo cup each time its empty, and Sean's head becomes bubbly like the drink. They eat the sushi while sitting on Sean's shitty futon, and after dinner, they make out. Shirts come off. Then pants. Boxers are pulled down as they stumble towards the bed.

On top of his sheets, Sean travels the familiar lines of Toby's body with fingertips and lips, delights at each touch that changes Toby's breath, savors the way Toby tastes.

Then Sean lies on his back and makes quiet murmurs as Toby's lips wrap around him. His brain floats from champagne and pleasure, and he smiles dumbly, watching Toby's head bob between his legs.

It's starting to feel _real_ good when Toby wipes saliva from his lips then reaches under the bed for the shoebox Sean keeps on the floor. Toby pulls out a condom and a bottle of lubricant and says, "You ready to stick your candle in some cake, Birthday Boy?"

Sean rolls his eyes . . . but his teeth pull at his lower lip. Sean knew he and Toby would have sex tonight, and Sean has something to ask. But saying it aloud makes him feel . . . uneasy . . . So he watches his bruised pinkie twirl the sparse chest hair his lovers usually play with and asks, sheepishly, "Would it be alright if we, uh, did it the _other_ way tonight?"

Toby's eyebrow creeps to his forehead. He sits up on his knees, and Sean's eyes fall to Toby's hard-on, framed by the stars tattooed on Toby's thighs. "What do you mean?" Toby asks.

Ugh. Toby _must_ know what Sean means, and Sean turns, stares at the empty bottle of champagne by the futon. _Maybe I'm ruining the moment. Maybe I shouldn't have brought it up. _

"Hey, don't do this—don't get quiet on me," Toby says gently and lies down, running a smooth palm over Sean's chest, then stomach, then stopping just above Sean's pelvis so that Sean's breath catches in his throat. "Tell me what you wanted, Sean. Use your words."

"Okay, you know how when we, like, do sex . . . not with our mouths, but . . . the other way with lube and condoms. . . " Sean squeezes his eyes shut. Although Toby is curled up against him and blood is throbbing in his lower half, he mostly feels his own fingernails biting into his forearm. "Usually, _I_ do _you, _but tonight I was wondering . . . if _you_ could do_ me_."

"Oh?" Toby says. "Oh!"

"Yeah . . . "

Toby grins. "So you want me to fuck you in your 'boy pussy'?"

"Oh my god, _please_ don't call it that," Sean says, pressing his palms against his eyes.

Toby laughs, and Sean's maybe-boyfriend kisses his neck with warm lips then pulls Sean's hands from his eyes. "Is there a reason you want to do this tonight?"

And the question makes Sean's heart ache because he has an answer that he can't put into words Toby would understand. So instead, Sean shrugs and says, "I just want to."

Toby says that's good enough and tells him to go clean up so they can "do this right."

Sean can count on one hand the number of times he has been penetrated—he and Toby _have_ done it like this before—and as he cleans himself in the bathroom, he feels hot with embarrassment, and that discomfort is the reason he rarely asks for this and exactly why he asked for it tonight.

Because this is his last night with Toby.

And his last night to be with someone for a long time.

And he needs to _feel_ it. Being penetrated makes him feel _vulnerable_. And that is exactly what he wants right now, raw, naked vulnerability because he doesn't get to be vulnerable again after next week. Not for a while. And maybe prison will break him, leave him so calloused and scarred that he'll never open up to anyone again. And it sucks that he cannot explain that to Toby, that he wants to _feel_ because soon he has to go back to being _numb_.

When Sean emerges from the bathroom, staring at his toes, Toby hugs him, and Sean apologizes for trembling, for being nervous. Toby says it is okay. Smiles. Kisses Sean's head. Seems to find Sean's awkwardness charming instead of annoying. Toby reassures him that they will go slow, so Sean lies in bed on his stomach, and Toby massages Sean's back, whispers, "You're safe. You're okay."

_You're safe. You're okay_.

Over and over.

It sounds like a foreign language after everything. But Toby keeps repeating it, his touch firm-yet-gentle on Sean's shoulders until finally Sean believes it.

_I'm safe. And I'm okay._

He closes his eyes. And relaxes.

Then Toby uses his tongue in a way Toby has never used his tongue before, and Sean's body shifts both from the surprise of it and how much it _likes_ being touched like that. Toby lets out a small laugh, and he keeps going as Sean whimpers into his bed sheets and pulls a pillow over his head, somehow extremely self-conscious but not wanting Toby to stop.

And after Sean's body is sending so much electricity through him that he shudders at each touch, Toby lies down on his back and takes the pillow from Sean's head. He smiles, and Sean smiles back, as Toby unwraps the condom and puts it on.

Sean lowers himself onto Toby's hips, and it takes a moment for the dull ache that flows through Sean's insides to feel good. But it does feel good. Intensely so. At first, Sean goes slow, but as those good feelings flood his body, he gives up control, let's Toby takeover. Sean sets his hands on Toby's shoulder to keep from doubling over. He tries to talk, but all he can do is babble.

It's almost overwhelming. But as every nerve in his body lights up, Sean tries to take all of it in. Every low moan. The way Toby's grip tightens on his hips. Every sensation. Even the smell of their sweat.

Because this is the last time, and Sean wants to experience all of it.

After Toby climaxes and finishes Sean with his hand, they clean up and lie back down together on the bed, giggling.

"_You_ made some interesting noises," Toby says, grinning.

"Shut up," Sean laughs. "You make noises too."

"My noises are masculine grunts, though," Toby says. "You say '_oy'_ in this high-pitched mouse squeak."

Sean's face burns, and he almost 'oh gods' his way back under the pillow, but Toby adds, "I like the noises you make. They're cute like everything else about you."

And Sean sighs as his sparse chest hair is twirled by Toby's fingers, and the warmth of Toby's brown eyes makes him feel safe. And okay. It's funny. Toby was the first person he spoke to in this new life, and next week they will be . . .

Well, "they" won't be.

"Do you believe in alternate realities?" Sean asks.

"You mean like when Biff gets the almanac in _Back to the Future Part II?"_

"Yeah, like that. What if you met a version of me, one from an alternate timeline. Let's say I only had one eye. Would you still think I was cute?"

Toby laughs. Covers up his own eye. _Arghs_ like a pirate.

"For real, though," Sean says, trying not to sound desperate. "If we had never met, and I showed up on your doorstep, thirty-years-old, glass eye, just out of prison—do you think you would still like me?"

"What is with this grim-dark, 'edgy' version of Sean?" Toby asks. "What could possibly happen to your sad ass to make you so hardcore?"

"People's lives can change in an _instant_, Toby. It only takes one bad day. And I just wonder . . . in this hypothetical, what if _I_ had one bad day that spiraled out into fifteen years of bullshit. I know you wouldn't know me if I showed up on your doorstep, but . . . do you think you would give me a chance?"

"Oh shit, I wasn't thinking" Toby says. "I'm sorry, Sean. I didn't—is this about your brother?"

Kind of. In the way _everything_ is about his brother. "It's about . . . the Diaz brother that went to prison," Sean says. "I just wanted him to have a good life."

"It's not your fault, what happened with Daniel," Toby says, pulling him into a hug. "But I gave you a chance when you were a self-absorbed shithead in college, and that worked out for me. Maybe I could give this Rob Liefeld-assed, alternate-reality Sean a chance too."

They cuddle after that, not talking about anything in particular—cartoons and movies and shit, mostly. But Sean knows that what Toby said, about giving one-eyed, fresh-out-of-prison Sean a chance isn't true. It's dumb to think Toby would wait for him . . . especially in a life where Toby does not even know him. But what they did just now was so _intimate_, and a week from today, Toby will be a stranger and Sean will be cold and embraced by concrete and metal bars instead of this dork's boney arms and nobody will touch him, not with gentle kindness anyway, and if Sean is _vulnerable_ people might hurt him and . . . and . . .

**Soundtrack: "Rivers and Roads"**

**by The Head and the Heart**

Sean sobs.

They're in the middle of debating if Sokka or Zuko is hotter in _Avatar: The Last Air Bender_, and like his father did in the wing restaurant, Sean holds up a hand. Says it's nothing. But a second sob rocks his body, and then he is crying into Toby's collarbone, Toby shushing him like the big, stupid baby Sean is.

"I'm sorry," Sean says, wiping his eyes with his fingers.

"It's okay," Toby says cautiously.

"I don't know why you put up with me," Sean says. "I know I'm hard to love."

"Dude, you are, like, the _easiest_ person to love," Toby says.

"You don't have to bullshit me to make me feel better," Sean says.

"Honestly? You're not always the easiest person to be in a relationship with, but you are not that shithead I hooked up with in college anymore. You are kind without thinking about it. You notice things others don't, and you love people with this quiet intensity. You _never_ half-ass things. Like, you work harder than _anyone_ I know. And you are adorable." Toby's thumb grazes Sean's cheek. "I know you are going through a lot with your brother, and the fact that you keep it together—most people who aren't you would break. This whole time I have known you, you have always sucked at seeing yourself the way other people see you. Everyone loves you. And I _te amo_ you_._"

"_Tu español es muy malo_," Sean laughs. "But thanks. For saying all that. _Te amo también_."

Toby sucks on his lipring for a moment, like he does when he's thinking. When he has something important to say.

"What's up, Toby?" Sean asks.

"It's nothing," Toby says, ominously.

# # #

Toby's breathing shifts as he dozes off. And for the first time in a month, Sean feels exhausted but not peaceful as he lies in bed. Goodbyes are hard, especially when you cannot tell your not-really boyfriend that this _is_ goodbye. Since he talked to Max, whenever he does feel down, Sean flips through photos and old videos he has saved on his phone, studying them like he can burn their images into his brain because in that other life, he only has memories.

Sean has too many regrets to rank, but tossing his cell phone full of pictures and videos of his friends and family is high up there.

He puts in a pair of earbuds and pulls up a video from a Christmas over a decade ago.

In the video, Dad calls Daniel into the room. Daniel is small and his eyes light up when Dad hands him one more Christmas present, says Daniel has been "good" this year (Daniel was _not_ good that year). Daniel excitedly rips open the package, and the crushing disappointment on the kid's face when it's only socks and underwear—Sean laughs in the video and in his bed.

Toby stretches and blinks in the cellphone's dim glow. "What are you watching?" he asks dreamily.

"Shit. Sorry," Sean says, pausing the video. "It's . . . a video of my brother getting his PlayBox for Christmas. When we were both still kids."

Without a word, Toby squeezes Sean's hand. So Sean squeezes back.

"Hey, Toby," Sean says, "what were you wanting to say to me earlier?"

"This isn't the best time," Toby says.

"There's never a 'best time,'" Sean says, eying his Dad and brother on the phone's screen.

Toby sits up, hugs his bare knees to his chest. "Well, I, uh, need to talk to you about something."

And Sean's heart stops. Toby's tone—this is a _serious_ conversation. And Sean knows he is about to get dumped. Which, maybe it doesn't matter, he's bailing on this life anyway next week, but, shit, he wanted to leave everything in a good place. Be able to pretend good things are out there for him, even if he doesn't have them.

"So the last few times I stayed over," Toby says, "leaving your apartment in the morning didn't _feel_ right. Like, I don't think I want to leave your apartment in the morning anymore."

Yeah, this definitely sounds like a we-should-stop-sleeping-together conversation. Fuck.

"So I was wondering," Toby says, "if you would want to move in together?"

"What?"

"It's okay if you need time to think. I wanted to bring it up when I moved to LA, but everything was going on with your brother, and I didn't want to be _one more thing_ and—"

"Toby, I would love to move in with you," Sean says.

"But?"

_But I'm going back to serving a prison sentence next week_, Sean thinks. However, he says, "There's no _but_."

Toby lunges at him, wraps Sean in a hug. He babbles about how long he has wanted to bring this up and how together they can afford to live in an apartment that doesn't suck and how he can _finally_ stock Sean's bathroom with lotion and real shampoo and conditioner instead of the shitty two-in-one stuff Sean cheaps out on.

And, sure, this is not going to happen. Good things like moving in with his boyfriend don't actually happen to Sean Diaz.

But Sean Diaz is trying to accept that he deserves them, so for now, he pretends this will work out.

And who knows? Maybe one day, a lifetime from now, something actually will.

"Anyway," Toby says, after he is done rambling about moving in together, "can I watch the rest of your video with you?"

Sean chews on the inside of his lip. This is the video he watched at the motel, after calling Lyla, after meeting Brodie, after getting fucking kidnapped by Hank fucking Stamper. When he realized he was no longer a kid. That he had to look out for Daniel. That it was all on him.

At that point in his life, he had never felt more alone.

But before Sean can answer, Toby takes one of the ear buds and places it in his ear. He lays his head on Sean's shoulder, and Sean hits play, and they watch the joy in Daniel's face as he realizes there is a PlayBox beneath all of the disappointment.

* * *

_rivers and roads_

_rivers and roads_

_rivers til i reach you_

_rivers and roads_

_rivers and roads_

_rivers til i reach you_


	51. Episode Four: The Storm - Eighteen

Tomorrow, Sean Diaz turns twenty-six, and then goes back to a past where he has no future.

Today, he stands in his tiny studio apartment with a backpack over his shoulders. He has a flight to Seattle, but all he is taking are a change of clothes, his toiletries, the Puerto Lobos lighter which traveled every step with him across two realities, and the sketchbook which holds the past he cannot escape.

This is the last time he will see his home in Los Angeles.

Last time he'll see the stains on the walls. The window that does not close all the way. The faucet that leeks throughout the night.

It's a shitty apartment. But it's _his_.

He worked hard.

Got a sweet job in a sweet city.

Even has a boyfriend who wants to move into a less-shitty apartment with him.

Sean takes a sticky note from the top drawer of his desk. He writes: _You deserve good things, even if you don't get to keep them._

He presses the sticky note onto his pillow on the bed where he and Toby made love a few nights ago. It's a note that he will never see again, but maybe by writing it down, the message will find him in that other life, where he needs it the most.

Then he stands in the doorway, hand hovering above the light switch. Breathes in the rice and chicken smells that creep up from the Chinese restaurant downstairs. "It was a good life. While it lasted," he says, then turns off the light and locks the door.

# # #

Crammed between two other passengers on his flight, Sean listens to a playlist of his favorite songs, eyes closed, hovering near sleep. The tracks range from Gorillaz to Misty Mice to Frank Turner, a soundtrack of his life that stirs memories with each note.

The music helps him feel at peace with what he has to go back to and what he has to give up . . . until the playlist hits "I Found a Way" by First Aid Kit, the song Cassidy performed in Beaver Creek, and Sean's sense of acceptance suddenly cracks.

Some of it is remembering Cassidy, jarringly being thrown back into that other life amplified by lines like: _There's a heavy load upon our back/of things we carry from the past._ But mostly it's the lines:

_I need your condolence_

_And your trust_

_But I won't ask_

_Won't ask for much_

Because he has a plan of what he wants to do with Dad tomorrow, but there is _one_ thing he has not decided:

Does he tell his father everything?

He _needs_ his father to know . . . but Dad knowing the truth means Dad knows _him_.

And Dad might not like knowing Sean Diaz.

# # #

Dad picks Sean up at the airport, with a gray beard and standing next to the car he has impossibly had all of Sean's life. Though their interactions have still been awkward dances around the subject of Daniel, Sean jogs the last few steps to wrap the man in a hug, breathing in the cheap aftershave and motor-oil smells. And when Dad hugs him back, it still feels like being sheltered by the strongest man in the world.

"It is good to see you, _mijo_," Dad says.

"It is _always_ good to see you, _papa_," Sean says.

Street lights flicker on during the drive to the house. Sean sets his backpack in his bedroom with the window Dad replaced after Daniel's graduation party, and when he comes back to the kitchen, a cake about the size of a basketball sits on the counter, _Happy Birthday, Sean_ written in purple icing.

"I know your birthday is still a few hours away," Dad says. "But would you like to get the celebration started early?"

Dad insists on plugging twenty-six individual candles into the cake, which he lights before Sean can retrieve the Puerto Lobos lighter from his bedroom. Packed so densely, the candles' fire glows like a small sun in their kitchen. Before Sean blows them out, Dad tells him to make a wish.

There are a lot of things Sean has wished for in his life. That his mom would come back. That he could fix the day his dad died. That he and Daniel could both be safe and free.

But none of those wishes ever came true, not without a cost. Sean knows there is no point in wishing for a world where himself, his brother, and his father can get together for barbecues on the Fourth of July and birthdays. Those are wasted wishes, and Sean is tired of wasting wishes. He would rather ask for something he can actually have.

He blows out his candles with a slow stream of air from the bottom of his lungs. "Do you want to know what I wished for, Pops?"

"It does not come true if you tell me, son," Dad says, opening the drawer for forks.

"I think this one will," Sean says, pulling out a candle and sucking off the icing—struck by the weirdness of not having to share with Daniel. "I wished for my dad to drink a beer with me and tell me stories about Puerto Lobos."

Dad sets two saucers on the counter and smiles from behind his beard. "I believe that is a wish we can make come true," he says and hands Sean a bottle of beer from the fridge.

They start in the kitchen but end up on the living room couch, demolishing half the cake and an entire six pack as Dad tells stories from Mexico that Sean has never heard before.

Stories like the time Dad's family had too much food in their house for a week because Sean's _abuela_ saved the neighbor's daughter's _quinceañera _by sewing up a dress that got ripped by two younger cousins horsing around the day of the party. "_Mi madre_ laughed," Dad says, "because they never knew she used duct tape too."

Or the time that Dad hid a stray dog in his bedroom for a week before Sean's _abuelo_ found out and ranted that the dog had to be gone by the next day. The following morning, Dad woke up, no dog—Dad was sure that his father had taken it away. Instead, the pup and Sean's _abuelo_ were napping together on the couch. "I got to keep the dog," Dad says.

Or the time that Dad and his best friend Eduardo were going to the city, and Eduardo's brother said they could use his car. "But he backed out at the last moment," Dad says, "so . . . I may have hotwired it."

"Holy shit, Dad, you stole a car?" Sean laughs.

"I like to think we borrowed it." Dad and Eduardo went to a club where they danced with two girls, and he snaps his fingers, trying to remember their names—María and Gabriela. "We danced until the club closed, and then afterwards . . ." The corner of his lip curls in a devilish smirk. "Well, maybe there are some things a father does not need to share with his son."

By the end, Sean's stomach aches, full of beer and cake, but mostly from laughter.

"_Gracias, mijo_," Dad says. "It was nice to relive those memories."

"It's nice to have memories you _want_ to relive," Sean says, tapping an empty beer bottle against his chin.

"It is getting late," Dad says, checking his phone. The screen flashes that it is almost 2:00 in the morning. "But, Sean, is there something you want to tell me?"

"Excuse me?" Sean says.

"I have talked a lot about myself and our _familia_ _en México_, but it feels like you have wanted to say something."

Sean stares at his bottle. This is probably it, the opportunity to tell Dad about the other life, about all of the things that have happened.

But the night of Daniel's graduation party, Dad reacted so badly when Sean tried to be honest. Dad kinda-kicking him out of the house . . . that _sucked_. Dad did not believe that Daniel has powers. And worse than dad not believing him, what if Dad confirms Sean's worst fear—that Esteban Diaz is ashamed of how his older son ends up?

Tomorrow will be their last day together. It is important that it is good.

Sean will do anything to make this day good.

"Nah," Sean says. "_Estoy bien_, Pops."

# # #

Sean can't sleep, so he digs through his childhood bedroom. Studies his track medals from high school and old drawings done as a child with a chubby hand gripping a crayon. Deep beneath his bed, behind a fortress of dust bunnies, he finds a shoebox with little league soccer ribbons and photos of him, his father, and his mother, in the years before Daniel was born.

The Sean in the photos grins, a smile that is too big for his face. And it is comforting to think that he was once a child who could smile like that, that there was a time before anything bad had ever happened to him.

Sunlight creeps through the window as Sean is reading a comic book he made with Daniel, about a dinosaur who sucks at skateboarding because he cannot reach his shoes to tie them, when something sizzles in the kitchen.

Eyes dry from not sleeping, Sean emerges from his room to find his dad grilling pancakes. "_Feliz cumpleaños, mijo_—officially," Dad says. "Today is your day—what do you want to do?"

"Oh, I have some ideas," Sean says, scrolling past birthday messages from Mom and Toby, to find the list he made on his phone over the last month.

First, Sean and his dad eat pancakes on the couch while watching old episodes of _Top Gear_, a show Sean has never _liked_ but is Dad's lifeblood.

Next, a local independent theater has a mid-morning showing of this shitty _B_-movie called _Chupacabras vs. Aliens_. It's the type of bad where it's okay to cut jokes with Dad when the zippers on the aliens' costumes are visible and all the white people agree to split up as CGI monsters mow them down one by one.

For lunch, Sean and his dad eat at Hopper's, a burger place that is _not_ good, but they often went here after Sean's track meets. On the television screens, the Seattle Mariners are playing the Texas Rangers, and Sean pesters his dad with questions about batting statistics. The numbers go over Sean's head, but he smiles at Dad's excitement explaining them.

After that, they get frozen yogurt and sit in the stands of the high school track where Sean won those trophies and medals in his bedroom. A boy, maybe an eleventh grader, breathes heavily as he checks his watch then sprints down the track. Sean and his dad reminisce about times when running was something that made Sean proud, not just his constant state of life.

"It has been a full day," Dad says, dropping his spoon into his empty yogurt cup.

"There is _one_ more thing I want to do," Sean says. The boy on the track finishes his sprint, rechecks his watch. Drops of sweat fly from his hair as he shakes his head, mutters to himself, then goes back to the starting line to try it all again. "It is a bit of a drive, though."

"You know Esteban Diaz is _always_ up for a drive, _mijo_."

# # #

By car, it takes only an hour and a half to reach Mt. Rainier National Park.

Sean thought he was past the panic attacks, but as he steps out of the car and the smells of pine and mud sting his nose, as he sees the donation box he almost broke open for money, his feet ache as they remember walking for two days straight. His body feels weak, flooded with the sadness and shock that had burned him out to a dull exhaustion.

As he stands at the entrance, heart fluttering in his chest, he thinks maybe this was a bad idea, trying to overwrite rough memories with better ones, like he could regain control of his life.

But then Dad points to a white rectangle painted on a tree. "Do you remember when I taught you about trail markers?"

"I do," Sean laughs, and his heartbeat steadies. "That one means we should go this way."

The park is empty except for Sean and his father, the universe finally cutting Sean a break by giving him these moments unspoiled by others. Sean leads his dad through the trees and imagines the ghosts of two boys—a sixteen-year-old pretending he isn't scared, a nine-year-old not yet knowing he should be—who play hide-and-seek, bicker about _Minecraft_, and make up backstories for raccoons.

At the clearing by the river, the heaviness creeps back into Sean's heart. This rocky outcropping isn't the first place he and Daniel slept as homeless runaways, but it is when things became _real_ that Sean was responsible for Daniel, that all of this was on him. The water burbling, the caw of the birds, the gentle breeze on his skin—they unlock dozens of memories Sean did not realize he had repressed.

"Let us sit for a bit," Dad says. "Your father is not as young as he used to be, and you look like you could use a break as well."

Sean pulls his father up by the wrist as they climb the gentle slope that hangs over Sean and Daniel's first wolves' den, and they sit, feet dangling over the side. Even though the forest is mostly pine trees, it is still greener than it was in October almost a decade ago. The river gently flows over the rocks, and a few, white clouds dot an otherwise clear blue sky.

Cotton candy, that's what Daniel said the clouds looked like. What a dork.

For a while, neither Sean or his father say anything. And for the first time in a year, the silence isn't awkward. Or tense. It's peaceful.

Like it's enough to be together.

"Have you had a good birthday?" Dad asks. "I feel like we did a lot of things I would want to do, like today has not been a Sean-focused day."

"We did exactly what I wanted, which was to spend the day with my dad."

"I know things have been hard lately, but there will _never_ be a day that I do not want to spend with you, my son."

"_Gracias_," Sean says. "You know, I think this has been my favorite day. Probably ever."

Sean Diaz has spent a lot of time ranking his days, typically from 'bad' to 'even worse'. The day his mother abandoned them. The day his dad was shot. Being tied up by Hank Stamper. Waking up from a month-long coma facing a prison sentence with one eye and no idea where Daniel was. Being captured at the border. Sean's own sentencing. That first Christmas in juvy. Sean's eighteenth birthday when he was moved to adult prison. The day Daniel turned himself in. Daniel's sentencing.

Just a life filled with bad days.

But _some_ good ones.

They are few and far between, but they are there, the way stars are hidden in a cloudy night sky.

The sun creeps towards the horizon, and Sean wishes _this_ day would not end—but remembers he is done wasting wishes on things he cannot have.

His gift is more time. But that time is running out. And if he doesn't tell his dad everything now, then he never will.

But that doesn't mean he _should_.

Because what if Dad looks at him like a stranger, uses that I'm-not-angry-just-disappointed voice, is ashamed of all of the bad things the boy with his last name has done?

Sean digs into the pocket of his jeans, hand trembling, and pulls out the Puerto Lobos lighter. The metal _clink_ echoes off the trees as he opens and closes it anxiously.

"That lighter is quite the traveler," Dad says, gently taking it from Sean. He runs his fingers over the _Puerto Lobos_ etching, worn smooth by years of Sean and Esteban's thumbs. "I always hoped it would see Puerto Lobos again."

When Dad hands it back, it feels warmer against Sean's palm. "Do you remember when you gave me this?" Sean says. "It was before tenth grade. We went camping. I was so stoked to get father-son time, just you and me without Daniel. We made a fire with this lighter, and you told me that I was growing up. And that meant life would get harder, and I had to face it by being more responsible. And part of that was being a good big brother. You said it meant everything to you that our bond was strong, that I was strong for him." A flame dances at the tip of the lighter as Sean flicks it with his thumb. But with a flip of his wrist, the flame is snuffed out. "I tried to look out for Daniel, Dad. I tried so hard. And I could have done better. I know that. I know I fucked up, but I want you to know I _tried_." Sean runs a fist under his nose, dragging a thin line of snot across the back of his hand. "You're a good dad, Pops. Having you as a father is the best thing that ever happened to me."

Sean stares at his new skate shoes, already stained and caked with mud, but he can feel his father's eyes on him, studying him like a doctor eying an injured patient.

"Sean," Dad says, "are you okay?"

"_Estoy bien, papito,"_ Sean says, sniffling.

Dad scratches his knees, and his fingernails scrape against the denim of his jeans. "I cannot help but notice that today felt a bit like a goodbye. I remember those pamphlets your school sent home about suicide. Are you thinking of hurting yourself?"

Sean laughs. Because he _is_ going to end his life, but he isn't going to _die_. "I am not going to kill myself, Dad."

Dad crosses his arms over his chest, stares out over the river as a fish jumps out of the water. He draws in a long, slow breath that seems to rattle his lungs. "Then are you thinking of changing the past back to the way it was?"

Sean blinks, and his eyes sting with tears that he did not realize were there. "What?"

Dad picks at the black grease stuck beneath his thumbnail. "The night that Daniel got arrested, you told me with conviction that Daniel could move things with his mind. And the more I have thought about it, as crazy as it sounds, what happened the day after his graduation—that is the simplest explanation. And about a month ago, Daniel called me on a Wednesday—which was odd, since he calls me on Thursday. And he told me that it was important that he saw me as soon as possible, that he could not explain over the phone, but it was about you. And a few hours later, you called me in the middle of the night asking to spend your birthday with me. So I went to see your brother, and he floated my cell phone and moved a chair across the room, and as much as I did not want to believe it, I knew what you told me the night Daniel was arrested was true. That is when your brother said that you had a power of your own. That you had lived a different life, and you had changed time itself to give yourself—and him—a better one. He said it was not his place to tell me what happened in that other life, but that he was worried that you were going to go back to it. He said you would try to say goodbye to me first. And if I ever had a day where it felt like you were saying goodbye, I had to do everything in my power to stop you."

"That's a, uh, pretty wild story," Sean says, scratching at the tattoo on his arm. "You believe all that?"

Dad's beard is long enough that he can pull the part that grows below his lower lip into his mouth with his teeth. "Christmas about three years ago, you changed. I saw it in your eyes, especially this one," Dad says, and he points a finger at Sean's left eye. "Something had happened to you, something too big for a semester away at college. You were different. Like you had lived beyond your twenty-some years."

"Hypothetically, let's say that it's true," Sean says, staring at his tattoo. "How would you stop me from changing things back to the way they were?"

"Well, how about you tell me about the life I am stopping you from going back to first?"

Sean scratches his arm until red lines have crossed out the face of the older boy on his tattoo. The pain burns in his forearm. He doesn't know how to start—doesn't even know if he should. He stammers, says he knows it sounds crazy, but he begins the same way he told Daniel in the motel outside of Away:

"Once upon a time, in a wild, wild world . . . there were two brothers, Sean and Daniel. They lived in peace with their papa until . . . until a cop's bullet took their dad away."

And then the dam is cracked. It all comes rushing out, a flood that wracks Sean's body. And he tells his father _everything_.

It's too much story for them to keep sitting on the outcropping. So as Sean tells about being tied up and surviving in the cabin and Mushroom and hopping the trains and danger always following them, they walk through the park. Up to the picnic area where Sean sat and overlooked the cliff, feeling the heaviness of loss. Back down to the bank where Sean and his brother gathered wood. They even skip rocks by the river, like Sean taught Daniel to do all those years ago.

Mostly, Dad just listens. Occasionally, his face turns pink, and Sean stops to let his father wipe at wet eyes. Sometimes Dad asks questions: "So you are telling me that after you woke up from a coma missing an eye that you scaled the outside of a hospital building then walked across a desert with broken ribs?"

"I don't _know_ that my ribs were broken," Sean says, rubbing the back of his neck. "But they never healed right. And I didn't walk across the _whole_ desert. A trucker picked me up after about fifteen miles."

Dad stares at him, not blinking.

"You do believe me, right, Pops?"

"I believe you, Sean," Dad says. "However, you realize there are marines who could not do that. I do not think you understand how strong you were. I am impressed that my boy—who whined the entire hour that I made him help me repair a fence when he was thirteen—could become a man who was so strong."

"What else could I do? Daniel needed me."

And for some reason, that makes Dad actually cry.

The sun has crept to the horizon, painting the sky above the trees orange, by the time Sean and his dad sit down on the rocks in the Diaz brothers' wolf den. But as Sean starts winding down the story, his dam is so broken that he blurts out the things he never told Daniel, the things too bad to record in his journal.

Like the guy at the bus station he and Daniel slept in before finding the cabin. The man kept making eyes at Daniel, and when Sean confronted him, the man offered Sean money if Sean would sleep with him. And Sean came _this close_ to letting his first time be with some creep in a public restroom stall, and he thought about that money as they went to bed hungry the following night.

Or the time in Humboldt County when everyone was drinking around the campfire. Sean had turned down their offers of pot and alcohol at first, thinking he needed to be clear-headed to watch out for Daniel. But he smoked his first joint and drank his first beer in months. And then kept drinking. Past the point when he knew he should stop. The next twenty-four hours were black, but later, Cassidy said she and Jacob had nursed him back to health while Finn kept Daniel away.

"And then there is the worst thing," Sean says, digging his fingers into the bone of his shoulder as if it can keep his voice from cracking. "The worst thing I did was at the border. We were staring down all those cops and Agent Flores, and I thought: _they took my dad; they took everything._ Some part of me knew they would never treat me fairly, that my only future was in Mexico. I wanted to cross the border so bad. And I wanted Daniel to hurt them. He would have done it, if I had asked, and that's when I knew how broken I was, when I was going to ask my brother to _hurt_ people. I fucked up so much, _papa_. I got Daniel shot. I lost my eye. I lost my way, and I know you must be so ashamed of me." Sean presses his face against his tattoo of the two boys with the wolves, and his body shakes. "I know we don't believe in Heaven or whatever, but every night in that other life, I lie on the cot in my prison cell, and I _know_ Esteban Diaz is disappointed in his son who made so many mistakes. I tried to make you proud, but all I did was let you down. You are the best person I will ever know, and me? _Soy un ladrón sucio con un ojo_."

Dad's silence is so loud it drowns out the river and the crickets chirping from the forest.

This is exactly why Sean didn't want to tell him. Because Dad cannot understand how he could have raised a fuck-up like Sean Diaz.

"That day that Daniel was arrested," Dad says slowly, "you stood in front of me, and I wondered what had happened to my gold-hearted Sean. And I think I understand now, that he was still there, but life had asked him to be stronger than any boy—any man—should have to be. So his golden heart was broken because hearts are only built to hold so much pain. Sean, I could _never_ be ashamed of you. Not in this life. Not in _any_ life. I am so _sorry_ that you had to shoulder so much, and if I could take it all away I would. But, _mijo_, you were brave. And you always tried to do the right thing, even when there was not a 'right' thing to do. And you were strong for your brother, when he needed you the most. My son—my dear, courageous Seanie-boy, I am so very proud of you. _Siempre y siempre y siempre._ It is the world that is broken—not you."

Everything is blurry, but Sean thinks his father smiles. And then Dad's arms are around him, and Sean breathes heavy, damp sobs into his dad's shoulder like a child who has been lost, alone in the wilderness for far too long.

# # #

On the drive back to Seattle, Sean feels like he has set down a weight he has carried for so long that he forgot it was breaking his back. Sure, he has to go back to a life that is mostly bad days, but _now_ is still his favorite day of his life.

So he turns on the radio, and enjoys one more drive with his dad.

# # #

When they get to the house, Dad parks in the garage but asks Sean to follow him up to the front yard. The streetlights have come on, and the missing fence is a scar on Sean's childhood home. Dad stands in the grass near where their property meets the Fosters' and asks, "Is this where I died?"

"It was a little more over there," Sean says, pointing.

Dad stares at the spot, and it is eerie, like a ghost hovering above his own grave. "So how do your memories work?" Dad asks. "Do you remember both of your lives?"

"Mostly," Sean says. "Everything from the first one, that is clear as day. I have most of my memories back from this one, but I had to work for them. Some things are fuzzy."

"Do you remember the day you got your acceptance letter to college?"

Sean chuckles. "I don't. It's funny. That seems like that should have been a big deal."

"It was December. Your senior year. I came home from work, and you had gotten the letter that afternoon but were too scared to open it. So we went to your room, and I gave you one of those 'Dad Talks' you needed back then. And you opened your letter. And, Sean, when you saw it said you had been accepted—and that they were giving you a scholarship—you were so excited. I do not think I have ever seen you so proud. You had worked hard and _earned_ something." Dad's fingers slide down his beard, drawing his face long in the nighttime shadows. "But then I saw that light inside you dim. You told me that you could not go. Because you had made plans with Lyla to go to Washington State. And then you said that Savannah was too far away from us, that you needed to be here for Daniel and me. You rattled off these reasons to walk away from your dream, but they were about other people, not yourself. Not what _you_ wanted. And all of those reasons made you sad. Finally, I asked you what _Sean_ wanted, and after a lot of coaxing, you finally said that you wanted to go to school in Georgia but that it was selfish, and you did not want to let everyone down. And I told you about how there were people who said I should not leave Puerto Lobos but that I had to do it, for me, because it is not selfish to put yourself first some of the time."

Like a key notching tumblers in a lock, Dad's words bring the memory back to Sean's mind. It had felt like such a relief, having his father's permission to focus on himself, which he had never really done before, even if he fucked up learning how to do so while he was in college.

But something about this feels weird, almost like that day when Dad was working up to telling Sean that Mom was gone. "Why are you bringing this up now?" Sean asks. "What are you trying to tell me?"

Dad takes a deep breath. "I am trying to tell you that you do not have to change things back."

"Of _course_ I have to change things back!" Sean snaps. "Daniel is in prison because of mistakes _I_ made!"

"Your story made it sound like _you_ were in prison for mistakes _Daniel_ made," Dad says calmly.

"People got hurt here! Brody, Jacob, Chris, Finn, Cassidy—all of those people are _dead_ here."

"I appreciate that those people helped you, and I love them with all of my heart for that—but none of those people are my son, and what happens to my boys matters more to me."

"But I fucked everything up! I made so many mistakes, and then I played with something I didn't understand, and I made everything worse. This is on me, Dad, and I have to fix it." Sean's words spill out of him, fast and desperate, like he's being dragged beneath the surface of an ocean as his father watches him from the shore. "Are you really telling me that you wouldn't give up your freedom for Daniel?"

"Of course I would give up my freedom for Daniel!" Dad says, raising his voice. "I would give my _life_ for Daniel. But, Sean, I would do the same thing for you. You are telling me there are two options—either Daniel suffers or Sean suffers, and I do not like _either_ of those choices because I want _both_ of my sons to be safe and free."

"Well, that option isn't on the table," Sean mutters, crossing his arms.

"I know that, _mijo," _Dad says. "I cannot make this decision because it is not my decision to make—it is yours. But, Sean, I listened to your story, and much of it broke my heart, but what made me most sad was that you were so focused on what Daniel needed or what you thought I wanted that you forgot to take care of yourself, too."

"You weren't there, Dad!" Sean says. "If I wasn't responsible for Daniel, who would be?"

"But you needed to be responsible for yourself too. You cannot love people if you are always putting yourself last, my son. You said there was never a right choice, but, Sean, that means there was also never a wrong one. If you go back, you will be giving Daniel his freedom and a chance to live his life—and I will be proud of you for the love you have for your brother and the strength it takes to make that sacrifice. But if you stay in this life, then you are saving Daniel from the burden of knowing he cost you _your_ freedom. Living a good life is just as noble, and I will be proud of you for honoring your brother's choice to give this to you. No matter what you decide, I will be proud of you."

And as Sean stands in the front yard with his father who died in another life, he remembers Daniel pleading with him: _Don't give up everything because you want to protect me. You have to stop sacrificing everything in your life for me. _He remembers how in that other life, he and Daniel put up walls that he came to this life to tear down.

He can't _really_ stay here, can he? How can he ever be happy as Daniel wastes away in prison? It is like having his heart cut out of his chest.

But how can he go back to a life that he tried to end?

Maybe Sean deserves good things . . . but so does Daniel.

He always thought he knew what he had to do—but now he is not so sure.

"It is okay if you need some time," Dad says, setting a hand on Sean's shoulder. "I know you will make the right decision as long as you consider this: What does Sean Diaz want? And what can Sean Diaz live with?"

The words sound like the question Daniel asked at the border, all those years ago:

_So, how does the story of the wolf brothers end?_

# # #

Suddenly, your screen turns gray, and the scene of Sean and his father splits across its middle.

Two options appear in front of you, a choice that will decide the story's ending:

SACRIFICE SEAN

or

SACRIFICE DANIEL

Your decision will impact the world around Sean and his brother.

This action cannot be undone.

This action will have consequences.

**Note: This story has two endings, and you can choose which one you want. If you want Sean to sacrifice Daniel's freedom and stay in this current life, please read the following chapter-the SACRIFICE DANIEL ending. If you want Sean to sacrifice his own freedom, go back to the original time, and give Daniel a chance at a regular life, read the SACRIFICE SEAN ending. Thanks for reading this far! **


	52. Cicatrices - Sacrifice Daniel Ending

_Note: This story has multiple endings. __If you want Sean to sacrifice his brother's freedom to stay in this current life, please read on. If you want Sean to restore the original timeline to give Daniel his freedom, please go to the next chapter. _

**Sacrifice Daniel Ending - **_**Cicatrices**_

Sean stands in his front yard and stares at his sneakers he bought a few weeks ago. It's like that old song his dad likes:

_Should I stay or should I go now? _

_If I go there will be trouble, _

_But if I stay it will be double. _

It feels like fighting himself. He imagines his own hands around his throat, pushing himself beneath the surface of a lake as the water burns his lungs. Dad sets a hand on his shoulder, and he lets himself be led to the door. In the house, Sean flips through the sketchbook at the kitchen counter, and Dad cooks frozen french fries and homemade chicken tenders with a bit of Mexican seasoning. It's a baby meal, but it was Sean's typical lunch when he was little.

The stool beside Sean creaks as Dad sits down and slides a plate in front of him. Sean walks his father through every shitty thing he wrote about in the sketchbook, but the chicken tenders taste like comfort, like being safe—and in that other life, Sean forgot what _safe_ was.

When he reaches the last page, the drawing of Daniel in the motel near Away, Sean removes the photo paper-clipped to the top. In the photo, he and his brother are shirtless; Daniel has the wolf tattoo sharpied onto his chest. They're flexing, despite their total lack of muscles, but they're happy.

Sean didn't think he could _be_ happy.

But Toby makes him happy. So does his job. And then there is Dad. This has been the best day of Sean's life, and if he goes back, he will never have a day like this again.

The plate slides across the counter as Sean pushes it with the back of his hand, and he lays his head in his arms. "I am a bad brother," he sighs. "Because I do not want to go back."

Dad's hands feel heavy as they rest on Sean's shoulders. "Daniel would feel like a bad brother if you went back," Dad says. "He wants you to be happy."

"How can I be happy leaving my _hermanito_ to rot in jail?"

With a grip strong from tightening bolts on engines, Dad squeezes Sean's shoulder. "When I left Puerto Lobos after my parents passed," he says slowly, "people said I was wrong, that I should stay. However, though he did not want me to go, my best friend Eduardo told me that if I left Puerto Lobos, then I had to make my new life worth it. And, though I have known more heartbreak than I knew I could bear, my life here—especially you and Daniel—_has_ been worth it. There is bravery in living a good life, too, _mijo_."

Sean's vision blurs as he raises his head, but he blinks, and the sketchbook comes into focus with the douchey shirtless selfie beside it. Sean picks up the sketchbook, and gripping it feels like he is back on the road, back on the run. "If I stay," Sean says, "I have to stop staring at the past. I can't keep holding on to it."

He flips through the book one more time, lingering on his sketches of Brody. Claire and Stephen. Finn, Cassidy, Jacob and the gang in Humboldt. Of Joey. Mom and everyone in Away. And, of course, Daniel.

Everyone who was a part of the story that he wants to write himself out of.

And then he shuts the cover, pulls his lighter from his pocket, and heads outside.

# # #

In their driveway, Sean's palm sweats against the Puerto Lobos lighter. He lights it, but he cannot bring the sketchbook to the flame. This is it—the end of the wolf brothers' story. An ending where he is no longer the "hero" but just some kid from Seattle.

"_Adios_," he whispers, and he holds the lighter to the sketchbook. The orange fire laps at the cover but finally bites, and the flame eats the paper, curling the pages as the heat chews at Sean's fingers. He holds on to it a as long as he can, but the pain becomes too much, and he tosses it to the pavement.

He watches the fire in his driveway consume a year of trauma—a year that no longer has to define his life.

His father's warm arms fall around him, holding him like he's a small boy. It reminds him of that day he and Daniel spent at Mt. Rainier. They had played together, made some legit good memories, but as they fell asleep next to their campfire, Sean stared at the embers and realized everything was going to be different from then on.

# # #

The guard's hand is firm on Daniel Diaz's arm. He isn't sure what the other prisoners or guards think of him. He's quiet but tries to be 'friendly,' as friendly as you can be in prison.

But, also, no one fucks with him.

Because they get fucked up if they fuck with him.

The door to the visiting room swings open, and Daniel pulls down the sleeves of his orange jumpsuit, double-checking that his forearms are not exposed. This is the only room in the prison with an air conditioner that actually works, so the cool air chills his scalp through his buzzed-down hair. Sean sits at one of the bolted-down tables—oddly, without their father. It's hard for Sean to make it from LA, Daniel wishes he could see him more, but even the fakeness of Sean's forced smile makes him grin.

Daniel hugs his brother, and Sean hugs him back so tightly his bones pop. And though the guards get uneasy if you touch your family members too long, Daniel feels Sean sigh into his neck before they sit in the hard, metal chairs.

"Happy birthday, _mi hermano_," Daniel says. "Only one day late."

"_Gracias, enano_," Sean says, picking at his fingers. They muddle through the small talk, go over how Dad is, and Daniel ignores the itching in his wrists.

"Daniel, I have to tell you something," Sean suddenly sighs. No _good_ conversation has ever started this way, and Sean stares at the tiny drop of blood from the piece of his fingernail he pulls away. "You don't have to worry about me 'doing something stupid' anymore because . . . I can't change the past back to the way it was."

"Oh?"

"I, uh, burned the sketchbook."

Suddenly, it is like the floor has become an ocean, and Daniel is adrift without the shore in sight. He never thought Sean would _destroy_ the sketchbook.

But this—this is what he wanted, Sean staying in this life.

Sean is awesome. Sean is the best brother. Sean deserves _all_ of the good things he can get.

"That is awesome," Daniel says, steadying his voice with the concentration that a pilot uses to fly a plane through a canyon. "I am happy for you."

"It means a lot for you to say that, _enano_."

The rest of the conversation passes as a blur as Daniel focuses all of his energy into smiling, lying like he has never lied before. And when Sean hugs him and leaves, Daniel goes back to his cell, collapses onto his cot, and sighs like a punching bag leaking sand. He pulls up his sleeves and stares at his forearms.

On the right, done by a guy named Nailz with an ink pen and a needle, is a messy tattoo of a skull—the sign of the number-two gang in the prison that is aiming to be number-one.

And on the left is a two-inch scar, a cut Daniel made with a shiv he has hidden beneath his mattress, a cut that, at the time, he could not bring himself to make any deeper. A cut that Sean must never know about.

# # #

Sean stops at the gates of the prison. In that other life, he imagined the end of his sentence, and, sure, he has visited Daniel and passed through these gates before, but this time it feels real, like walking through them means he is finally free.

He's heard about guys who leave prison, and they are so used to the fucked up rules and structure that they can't function in real life anymore. And as he passes through the prison gate and walks across the parking lot, a cold shiver passes through his body. The breeze on his face feels impossibly cold; the sun on his neck, impossibly harsh. They are wonderful yet terrifying at the same time.

When he gets to his father's car, which he borrowed to come down here, he sits in the driver's seat, glances back at the prison, and he imagines Daniel sitting in a cell, deflated the way Sean always was after their visits in the other life. Sean sets his head on the steering wheel and sighs.

_Maybe this is another thing I fucked up._

When he sits up, his forehead has an indentation, and he rubs it as he picks up his cell phone which he left in the passenger's seat. It has three notifications:

The first is an email from his former supervisor Jared: _Hey Sean! I just got a gig working on this animated reboot of Teen Wolf (the shitty MTV show not the shitty Michael J Fox movie). We need a storyboard artist and this sounded up your alley. Hit me back if you are interested._

The second is a text from Toby with a link to a couch from IKEA: _I refuse to let your shitty futon in our apartment, and I found this and it's cute like you. What do you think?_

It _is_ a pretty cute couch.

The last is a message from Dad: _How did it go?_

Sean types and deletes a message five times before he just calls. When his dad picks up, Sean says, "It went okay."

"You do not sound like it went okay," Dad says.

"I'm scared," Sean says, and his eyes trace his tattoo of the two boys with their wolves, tries to remember where his scars were on this arm. He studied them so much in prison, but he can't remember if the scar on the inside of his elbow was on this arm or the other one. "I know 'scared' is a weird thing to feel now, especially after all the for-real scary things that have happened to me. But it's like I have spent so much of my life worrying about the next bad thing that is going to happen—getting caught by the cops, everything that can happen in prison, the 'storm' I knew was coming for changing the past. But now, I'm beyond that, and it's like all this space is freed-up in my brain, in my life . . . and I don't know what to do with it. Like, I got so used to expecting not to have a life, that I'm not sure I know how to _live_ one."

Dad is silent for a long moment, and then he says, "I think coming back to the house and letting me order us a pizza would be a good start."

"Sure, Dad," Sean says. His fingernail is still bleeding, and it tastes the way pennies smell when he sticks it in his mouth—a taste that became too familiar in the life he has left behind. "Actually, I have _one_ thing. I've been thinking about what you said about the lighter, how you thought it should see its home again. Sometime, maybe next summer, would you take a road trip with me to Mexico? So I can finally say I made it to Puerto Lobos?'

"Of course, _mijo_," Dad says. "It would mean the world to see it again and with you."

When Sean hangs up, he sits in the car long enough for sweat to drench his shirt before he finally starts the engine. He's terrified. But excited. Heartbroken. Yet hopeful. And as he leaves the prison, he suspects he is at the start of his hardest journey yet—living for himself.

**Soundtrack – Outro: "Tell Tale Signs"**

**by Frank Turner**

**This has been "The Bravest Wolf in the World"**

**A **_**Life is Strange 2 **_**Fan Fiction**

**Episode Four: The Storm**

_**Cicatrices**_** Ending**

* * *

_you'll always remind me of scars on my arms that i know will never fade_

_and it's not like its something i think about each and every day_

_i just occasionally catch myself scratching at them as if they'd ever go away_

_but these tell-tale signs are here to stay _

_and in the end, you know that's okay_

'_cause you will always be a part_

_of my patched-up, patchwork, taped-up, tape-deck heart_


	53. Valiente - Sacrifice Sean Ending

_Note: This story has multiple endings.__ If you want Sean to restore the original timeline to give Daniel his freedom, please read on. If you want Sean to sacrifice Daniel's freedom in order to stay in the current timeline, please read the previous chapter. _

**Sacrifice Sean Ending - _Valiente_**

Sean stands in the front yard, facing one more Biggest Decision of His Life. Dad says he can take his time, but he doesn't need it.

His boyfriend.

His job.

Even his father.

He wants all of these things with every cell in his heart, but they all come with a bitter aftertaste. "Nothing is worth living in a world where Daniel can't have a life," Sean says.

Dad sets a hand on his shoulder. "Are you certain, _mijo_?"

And it hits him that _this_ is what he gives up by going back: the best person he will ever know helping him find his way. Because in that other life, yes, there was always someone who helped, but in the end, Sean was always on his own.

"It's only fifteen years for me," Sean says, and he digs a knuckle into his eye. "I can put a life together after that. Probably. Besides, I am, like, _way_ tougher than Daniel."

Dad laughs quietly. "I remember when your brother cried during _Jurassic Park_."

"Can't believe I'm sacrificing so much for such a wiener," Sean says, and his dad sets a hand on his back and leads him inside the house.

# # #

Inside, Dad cooks frozen french fries and homemade chicken tenders with a hint of Mexican seasoning. Maybe some people would want steak or lobster for their "last meal," but Dad made this for most of Sean's lunches as a little kid, and it tastes like comfort, home, and being safe—things that don't exist in the life Sean is going back to.

As he eats at the counter, Sean flips through the sketchbook with his father beside him, pointing out the parts that didn't completely suck. Like hanging out in the Mice Palace. Or meeting Finn and Cassidy. And the sunrise over the canyon in Away

And then he turns to the last page, the drawing of Daniel in the motel near Away, with the photograph of him and Daniel flexing paper-clipped to the top of it.

Which means it is time.

And, shit, he has spent _days_ of his life imagining last words to his father—both in that other life and in this one, once he knew he had to go back. But it's like something has scrambled the hard drive of his brain, and he _no tiene palabras_ in either language.

But he doesn't have to say anything. Dad pulls him into a hug, the kind that is nearly-too-tight-to-breathe, the kind where Sean's head is cradled against Dad's shoulder. He feels his father kiss him on top of the head, which Dad hasn't done since Sean was a little boy. "_Please_ do not take everything on your own. Your relationship with your brother is important, but it goes two ways. Let him help you, okay? And _never_ question if I am proud of you. Because I am. So very, very proud of you and Daniel." Dad's beard scratches Sean's cheek as a quiet, damp sob hits Sean's neck. "And please do not always be running away from something. Find something that you are running _towards_, okay?"

"I will, Dad," Sean says, and it is hard to push the words past the broken glass in his throat. He presses his nose to his father's chest. Breathes in the motor-oil and bad aftershave one more time. "Even though things got messed up, spending time with you was worth every shitty thing that happened. I wish I had told you I loved you more in that other life."

"You didn't have to," Dad says, somehow holding him tighter. "I always knew, even when you were 'too cool' to hug your _papi._"

"_Te quiero mucho, papito. Siempre y siempre._"

"_Te quiero mucho también, mijo_. _Siempre y siempre y siempre_."

Maybe if Sean holds on, this moment won't end, and he won't _have_ to go back. But he has learned not to hold on to things too tightly because they hurt more when they are ripped away. So Sean breaks the hug first, and the cool air that rushes into the space between them stings.

"Try to remember what I taught you," Dad says, wiping at his cheek. He coughs, deepens his voice. "But, you know, only the good stuff."

Sean's laugh shakes a tear from his eye that falls into the face of the older boy tattooed on his forearm. "Dad, it was all good stuff."

Sean turns to the drawing of his childhood bedroom on that day in 2016, and the pages feel heavy, but he is strong enough to turn them. His teeth dig into his lip as he has one more request. "Dad, could you—could you tell me a story? Like you did when I was little?"

"Sure, my son." Sean's father's arms wrap around him like armor, and Dad's heart beats against Sean's back. Dad clears his throat then whispers into Sean's ear. "Once upon a time, in a wild, wild world, there was a wolf. But this was no ordinary wolf because . . . because this wolf was the bravest wolf in the world. And the thing that made him brave was the strength of his heart and the way he cared for others. And no matter how hard life got—no matter how unfair it was—the wolf never gave up. Not on himself. Not on his little brother. And the wolf's family—especially his brother and father—loved him, with all of their hearts, always and always and always . . . "

And as Dad's story continues, Sean focuses on the picture. And Dad's voice and heartbeat fade as Sean travels back to that day that changed everything.

# # #

_Washington State Penitentiary _

_December 2022_

_The Original Timeline_

_Five Years After the Incidents at the Border_

Fifteen-year-old Daniel Diaz sits in the visiting room of the prison, next to a woman he has just met named Max Caulfield and across from the older brother that has sacrificed everything for him, clutching a sketchbook that Sean says he can use to change the past.

Sean sounds desperate as he reaches across the table and squeezes Daniel's hand; Sean's palms are hot and damp. "I can fix all of this, _enano_," he says. "I can make it so that none of this happened. No walls keeping us apart."

"But what if Max is right?" Daniel asks. "It hurts me, how much you've been through. I don't want to be responsible for making things worse."

"And, Sean Diaz, you _will_ make things worse," Max jumps in. "You cannot do this. Please, Sean. Please make the right choice here."

Sean crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. A forced calm slides into his voice. "It's not my choice to make, though. I am going back. I knew I would do this, even before I knew I could. But I can't do it without the sketchbook. And I don't have the sketchbook. Daniel does, and he doesn't have to give it to me."

The stickers on the cover—Sean's name, _Nasty People Suck, Shove It_—are faded and torn from their long journey and years of Daniel hugging the journal to his chest on nights when he's overcome with guilt for his brother being in prison.

"So, Daniel, it's your choice this time, _hermanito,_" Sean says. "We thought the story of the wolf brothers was over . . . but it doesn't _have_ to be. How does their story _really_ end?"

Daniel squeezes the sketchbook so tightly his knuckles hurt. He never wanted to be the thing that cost Sean his future. But there's a risk here—if what Max says is true, then letting Sean change the past could make everything worse.

_At least it's my choice this time,_ Daniel thinks. _It's not just something I'm letting happen to my brother. _

Sean deserves good things. Sean deserves _everything_.

Being able to give Sean the life he deserves, bringing Dad back—if that isn't worth taking a risk, what is?

"I think the wolf brothers' story ended at the border," Daniel says. "But everything that happened to the wolf brothers was so unfair. They never really got to have the story they deserved, did they? So . . . I say, let's try it again. From the beginning."

Max cries out in protest, but Daniel holds her in place with a wave of his hand. Sean grabs the sketchbook, and Max pleads with him to stop and the desperation in her voice—what if this _is_ a mistake? But Sean turns to a page near the start of the journal, the image of his bedroom on the day their dad died, and stares at it.

And stares.

And nothing happens.

Max's protests quiet down, and Daniel releases her from his powers. There's a small cut on the top of Sean's head from where the electric razor that buzzes his hair nicked him. A guard starts to come over, but Daniel waves him off.

Suddenly, Sean's head shoots up, his eye _wide_ like he has had ice water dumped on him while he was sleeping. He looks around the room. Fingers explore his face, feel under his eye patch. He pushes up his sleeve and touches the shitty wolf tattoo Cassidy gave him in California.

For some reason, Max gasps, covers her mouth with her hand.

"Sean?" Daniel says quietly. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, _enano_," Sean says, voice barely above a whisper. "Everything is fine."

"Is it not working? Did something go wrong?"

Sean shakes his head. "Changing the past is not a good idea. Max is right. There could be a cost."

"Five seconds ago, you were all 'I'm going back no matter what _fuck everything_' and now 'it's not a good idea'? What about saving dad or tearing down walls? We were going to give the wolf brothers a better ending."

"Life isn't like the stories Dad told us, _enano_," Sean says, closing his journal. "Life doesn't always give you the ending you want." Sean holds out the sketchbook, his arm over the floor instead of the table.

Daniel reaches to take it, but Sean lets it go too soon. The book drops to the floor with a _whump_.

Sean does this sometimes, not as often as he used to. Having one eye means his depth perception is kind of shit. But he stares at the sketchbook on the floor, and as Daniel picks it up, Sean's body shakes. Sean presses his face into his hands and cries.

Daniel kneels by him, but nothing he says seems to comfort his brother, who keeps saying that he's okay even though he isn't supposed to lie. Then Daniel feels a hand on his shoulder. It's Max. "Daniel, can I speak with Sean?"

"Can you not see he is upset?" Daniel snaps. "I can't bail on him right now. Read the fucking room, Max."

"It's okay, Daniel," Sean says quietly. "I would like to speak to Max. Alone."

Daniel blinks. This does not make any fucking sense. A couple of minutes ago, Sean was biting this lady's head off, and now he is kicking Daniel out of the room to talk to her one-on-one? Daniel protests, but both of them insist, and finally he gives Sean a hasty hug and stomps out of the visiting room with the sketchbook, pissed and hurt and confused.

# # #

After Daniel leaves, Sean stares at his feet. For him, less than ten minutes ago he was wearing new-but-worn-in skate shoes instead of flimsy prison slippers.

"You can take a moment," Max says gently. "I know how difficult this is, coming back to a life you left behind."

And, like, fuck—_everything_ hurts. Sean's ribs wheeze from Chad kicking him in the desert. His back throbs from sleeping on the prison cot. And his bones _ache_ with sadness; Sean forgot that sadness could physically hurt.

He doesn't get anxiety meds here, so his heart flutters with panic.

Half the world is black because he's missing an eye.

He is covered in scars.

But worst of all is the pain in his chest because he just watched his dad die a second time, knew he could stop it, but had to let it happen anyway.

It's like being tied to an anchor and tossed into a frozen lake filled with jagged rocks, broken glass, and used needles. The shock of it is so much, Sean almost cannot form words.

Sean counts his breath, tries to do the breathing exercises his therapist taught him in that other life. He gets himself together enough to look up at Max, whose eyes are full of pity and recognition.

She pushes a strand of blue hair behind her ear. "You want to tell me how you're doing, Sean?"

"I just left the best day of my life to relive the worst one," Sean says. "Do you want to tell me 'I told you so'?"

"If you are back here, you don't need me to rub salt in your wounds," Max says. "I'm sorry you had to face your own storm. I got so upset earlier because I didn't want what happened to me to happen to you."

"It wasn't a storm so much as it was . . . a price," Sean says. "I had a pretty good life. I got to spend time with my dad. But the price was Daniel, and that was too high." Sean drums his fingers on the table, then squeezes his hands together, almost like a prayer. "Daniel can never know about this, okay? If he knew that I sacrificed everything for him again, it would kill him."

"I promise I won't tell," Max says. And then she sets a hand on top of his. "I know how impossibly hard this is—to have lived a different life, one that had good things that you wanted, good things that you probably deserve, and to have to give them up. I wish I could tell you that the pain goes away, that it gets better. But I have lived with my pain for a while now, and it hasn't lessened."

Sean's head hurts as he tries to focus on her with only one good eye. Somehow this version of Max almost looks _older_ than she did in the video call last month/four-years-from now. Dark circles under her eyes. A mouth with corners weak from frowning. Even the blue hair looks over-dyed, like she does it more out of routine than as a statement.

She looks tired.

"Actually, Max, you maybe _are _telling me that things get better."

She blinks at him, puzzled.

"I was in that other life for a while, and we met up a few times," he says. "I shouldn't spoil things for you—I don't want to piss off the universe more than I have—but, Max, you won't _always_ be blue."

# # #

In the prison's parking lot, Daniel slams the door of his grandmother's car.

"I do _not_ want to talk about it," he says, before she can ask what is wrong. "Sorry about slamming the door."

Grandma Claire nods, doesn't press the issue, and begins driving home.

What. The. Fuck.

Was Sean bullshitting about being able to travel through time?

What if it was a delusion?

Is Sean even more broken than Daniel thought?

_Broken because of me_. As they pull out of the parking lot, Daniel glances back at the prison and imagines taking it apart brick by brick until his older brother stands free atop the rubble.

Sean sounded so sure about changing the past—on the phone, when Daniel first saw him today. _Something_ must have gone wrong.

He turns to the drawing of Sean's room in the sketchbook. Maybe the image is smudged or something is fucked up with the pages. Daniel doesn't know how Sean's "powers" are supposed to work, but everything looks fine.

He flips through the rest of the book, which he has done on countless nights when he gets to missing his brother. If he pretends, as he reads the words on the pages, he can hear Sean's voice, so it is like his brother is talking to him.

He has the whole sketchbook memorized.

So when he gets to the last page, he is startled to find a drawing that was not here before.

It's a picture of himself, sitting on a bed in a motel. And he's the age he is now, not the ten-year-old boy he was when Sean was arrested.

And paper-clipped to the top of it is a photograph. In the photo, Daniel and his brother flex in a mirror. Sean's ears are pierced, and he has that stupid haircut that Finn gave him in California. Neither Daniel nor Sean are wearing shirts. The Daniel in the photo has a tattoo of wolves drawn on his chest in sharpie, which is something Sean would do when they were kids. And Sean has the same image on his chest, only Sean's tattoo is real, a tattoo that Sean does not actually have.

Also, the tattoo on Sean's arm is different. Instead of the poorly-drawn wolf, it's a boy walking a road by himself.

There is no way this image could exist. This is a moment that never happened.

And as the car rolls past the rows of pine trees that line the state highway, realization dawns on Daniel. "Oh my god, Sean," he whispers, "what did you do?"

# # #

Getting through the conversation with Max and Daniel saps Sean's strength, and he stumbles back to his cell in a daze, where he collapses face-down onto his cot. He curls up into a ball, and the rest of the day disappears. Prison is so much worse than he remembered. He has forgotten the rules, the ebb and flow needed to survive. He almost gets the shit kicked out of him at dinner and then again in the showers.

He moves through three days, his body in shock like he has survived a car crash.

_Maybe I am too broken to do this,_ he thinks as he lies down on the third night. His hours of sleep have only been a means to escape being awake, but on this night, he has a dream.

In the dream, he is driving a car—not just any car, but the one his dad was fixing for him for his graduation, the car he had in the other life. His father is in the passenger's seat. They head towards the US-Mexico border, but there are no guards.

No wall.

"How are you doing, Sean?" Dad asks. "How are you doing _really_?"

"Honestly?" Sean says. "Pretty bad."

"I wish life was more fair," Dad says. "Especially to you. You don't deserve this."

"That doesn't change that this is happening to me, Dad," Sean sighs. "I don't know if I am strong enough to do this after all."

"You are, _mijo_," Dad says. "Because I believe in you, you have come this far, and I am proud of you. I am sorry you have lost so much, more than someone your age should be able to lose. But, as dark as things are now, you still have good things ahead of you."

They cross the border without incident, and on the other side, it looks the way Sean always imagined Puerto Lobos would. The sun shines. There's a beach. The windows of the car are down, and the salty air is cool and fresh and smells like _freedom._

And then Sean wakes up.

The dream felt so vivid, like Dad was actually here, and being back in the cold cell should be upsetting. But instead, for the first time ever in prison, Sean feels at peace. He pulls some paper and a pencil from among his meager belongings, careful not to wake his cellmate Troy.

One of the things Dad said before Sean left that other life was to not always be running _away_. It's never completely dark in prison, so in the dim light, Sean makes a list of things for the end of his sentence, things he can run _towards_.

-Check in on Toby on social media (I hope he is happy)

-Hang out with Cassidy and Finn

-Crash at Jacob's (hope he still lives on the beach)

-Get a beer with Brody (if Brody drinks maybe he doesn't?)

-Get high with Lyla—look at the lights of Seattle

-Christmas with my grandparents

-Make my Superwolf comic (and give it a happy ending)

-Frozen yogurt with Mom (and tell her about all those track meets she missed)

-Find out if I can still kickflip

-Thank Chris for being Daniel's other brother

-Get my wolf tattoo with Daniel

-Get Daniel drunk

-Go on a real camping trip with Daniel (for fun not survival)

-(Maybe tell Daniel everything?)

It hits him that the last few things on his list are about his brother. He chews on his pencil, then writes:

-Live on my own for a while. Live by myself and for myself.

He pauses again, and then he adds one more thing:

-Finally make it to Puerto Lobos. With Dad's lighter.

He rereads the list. These seem like good things, wishes he can make happen. And he deserves good things, even if he can't have them just yet.

Even if they are far away.

"I can do this," he whispers in the dark. "Because I have come this far. And I am not broken. I am brave."

**Soundtrack – Outro: "The Ballad of Me and My Friends"**

**by Frank Turner**

**This has been "The Bravest Wolf in the World"**

**A **_**Life is Strange 2 **_**Fan Fiction**

**Episode Four: The Storm**

_**Valiente**_** Ending**

* * *

_none of this is going anywhere_

_pretty soon, we'll all be old_

_and no one left alive will really care_

_about our glory days when we sold our souls_

_but if you're all about the destination_

_then take a fucking flight_

_we're going nowhere slowly_

_but we're seeing all the sights_

_and we're definitely going to hell_

_but we'll have all the best stories to tell_

_yes, i'm definitely going to hell,_

_but I'll have all the best stories to tell_


	54. Siempre y Siempre y Siempre

_**Message from the Author:**__ This story has multiple endings, and before reading on, you should go back and choose either the Sacrifice Daniel or the Sacrifice Sean ending. Once you've done that, you can come back here. _

_Okay, so did you read one of those endings first?_

_Cool._

_I cannot believe you have made it through 160,000 words of this. I want you to know, I appreciate the amount of time and energy you have spent with me and this story. It is humbling._

_So, as a "thank you," here is a bonus ending:_

# # #

You are back on the screen with the choices that determine the ending of the story.

The first two choices are still there: SACRIFICE SEAN or SACRIFICE DANIEL.

And no matter what you do, no matter what Sean does, his choices always lead him back here.

Except . . .

Now there is a third option hidden just below them:

SACRIFICE SEAN

or

SACRIFICE DANIEL

or

SAVE THEM BOTH

# # #

**Secret Ending: **_**Siempre y Siempre y Siempre**_

_1452 Lewis Avenue_

_October 28, 2016_

_The Day Esteban Diaz is Shot _

Sean uses his powers and lands in his childhood bedroom. A fifty-pound weight has replaced his heart, and it presses on his chest as he walks into his front yard like a man heading to the electric chair. Brett Foster shoves Daniel, and Daniel is so small. Sean forgot how _small_ Daniel was when all this happened.

But Daniel deserves the world, and that is why Sean has to change everything back. Why he has decided to go back to prison. Because Daniel is worth it.

A tiny voice in Sean's head whispers: _But aren't I worth it too?_

Like a burnt-out actor, Sean mutters his lines. He pushes Brett. Brett falls, and Officer Matthews shows up. Then Dad comes. Everything sucks. Everything is chaos. The bullet rips through Dad's chest, and Sean's ears ring from the gunshot and the explosion as Daniel's powers rock the neighborhood.

This is the worst day of Sean's life, and when he opens his eyes, he's taken back by how much it looks like the _other_ worst day of his life, the day of Daniel's graduation party, the day Daniel was arrested.

Nine-year-old Daniel lies passed out on the grass next to Brett's unconscious body. Officer Matthews is dead by his overturned police car. And Sean crawls to his father, whose lifeless eyes stare up at the sky they cannot see

Dad's unblinking eyes hurt, hurt more than Sean has words for. These eyes that always looked at him with pride and understanding. Even angry, they always held kindness. The only time Dad ever looked at him like a stranger was the night Daniel turned himself in, when Dad kicked Sean out of the house saying:

_You ran away and made everything worse._

Sean has often wondered why he ran away this day. It seems obvious—a cop had shot his dad, he didn't understand what happened with his brother that destroyed their neighborhood, more cops were coming. He panicked. He didn't know what to do, and maybe if he had more time, if he _knew_ what was going on, he would have made a different choice.

_Wait._

_I _do_ have more time._

_And I _do_ know what is going on._

A thousand thoughts fire through his brain in a microsecond. There was something Max said, besides that thing about his gift being more time. It was when she was talking about David:

_You're not supposed to change the past. _

_You're supposed to let the past change you. _

_We can control how we change._

Changing the past was a mistake. Obviously. Everyone got hurt, people died, Daniel ended up in jail. But Sean _is_ supposed to learn from it, and everything from ghosting Sarah in college to Daniel yelling at him on the side of the road to the extra time with Dad to being locked up in prison in the first place has told him that he _shouldn't_ run away . . . but he has to start putting _himself_ first.

So maybe Sean cannot change the things that happened to him. Maybe the scars will always be with him and trying to erase them only replaces them with new scars.

But maybe he _can_ change _himself_.

"Dad, I hope you are right," Sean mutters, "about how if there isn't a _right_ choice there isn't a wrong one either." He can already feel himself being pulled back to the present. He has only seconds.

So he tries to download as much information into his sixteen-year-old brain as he can, about what has happened and the lessons he has learned:

_Daniel has powers—you can handle them if you trust him and never lie to him._

_Always stick together._

_But you have to take care of yourself too. _

_You are strong enough to do this._

_But don't run._

_Don't run._

_Don't run._

# # #

_Seattle, Washington_

_August 16, 2026_

_Nine Years After the Death of Esteban Diaz_

_The Morning After Sean Diaz's Twenty-sixth Birthday_

Sean sits up in bed, and cold sweat glues a t-shirt to his chest. He has two eyes. Dirty fingernails.

And a tattoo on his forearm. Instead of the boys or Cassidy's wolf, it's Dad's car driving down a long, lonely road. _1970 – 2016_ is tattooed above it.

Sean's brain is the soupy mess of overwritten memories it was when he woke up in the life where he went to school in Savannah. He has a vague sense that this is _his_ bedroom, confirmed by pictures of him, Dad, and Daniel on the dresser. In the photos, Sean is a teenager, so none of them are _recent_. Sean picks up an oil-stained work shirt from the thin carpet, and a nametag pinned to it says: _Bob's Garage – Sean_.

He stumbles to the window, and across the street is the Z-Mart he worked at in high school. So he is in Seattle. That is not as cool as Los Angeles but definitely better than prison. He fishes his cell phone from his pocket, and he has several recent messages:

From Claire Reynolds: _Happy Birthday, Sean! See you next week! Love, Claire and Stephen._

From Lyla Park: _Happy birthday forever-bestie! Can't wait for you to actually go out tonight since I'm buying all your drinks for you you tightwad_

There's more from people who must be his friends in this life. And apparently he met someone when he went out with Lyla because one of the messages is from "Hottie at Bar" and just says _Call me cutie!_

But he also has a message chain from Daniel.

Sean holds his breath, and his thumb hovers over the contact. What if he and Daniel aren't on good terms here? In that other life, Sean ruined everything by not settling for _C-_minus_._ He has his freedom, and so does Daniel. Does Sean risk everything to have Daniel again? Or does he let them both live their lives?

But Daniel is the most important thing, and Sean has to know if they are brothers or strangers.

He opens their messages and finds ten memes from yesterday, all variations of _Happy Birthday_. One of them calls him "The Best Big Bro," but at least five of them call him a "dork" or a "loser." The last message is from 7:00 PM and says: _Cool if I call you before you go out to get totally shitfaced birthday bro?_

So things with Daniel are okay.

Sean explores the rest of the apartment, and . . . it's pretty basic. Better and nicer than his one in Los Angeles, but its cheap furniture and sparse decorations screams _twenty-something bachelor_. In a second bedroom, Sean finds three boxes labeled _Daniel's Stuff_. And Sean has a feeling in his chest, a kind of vague excitement that suggests that this is a big week, something he has been working towards for a long time. He finds some sketchbooks and journals in his bedroom.

Though there are fewer sketchbooks than in his apartment in Savannah, it is easier this time, putting together the pieces of this new life. It takes time, but over the next few days, this is what he learns:

# # #

The day Dad was shot, the police took Sean and Daniel to the station and assaulted them with questions. But Sean stuck to his story that Officer Matthews shot his father, that he didn't _know_ what happened after that, and were they being charged with anything or could they go?

But the questioning stretched on, and one asshole cop got in Daniel's face and graphically described Dad's dead body. "Did that make you angry? Did that make you or your brother want to lash out?"

And Daniel _did_ get angry. He screamed. And the room shook.

And somehow Sean knew: _Daniel is doing this._ He set a hand on top of Daniel's, calmed him down, and the police dismissed the shaking as an earthquake.

When Sean and his brother were finally released, Lyla was in the lobby. With her parents, Ellery and his parents, Adam, and even Jenn. And that was the first time Sean cried, because there were people who cared about him. Cameras and protestors crowded the sidewalk, but once they pushed through, Sean and Daniel spent the night at the Parks.

After Sean tucked Daniel into bed in the guest room, he smoked a joint with Lyla in the Parks' sunroom and sobbed like a baby. And it felt weird for Lyla to hug him instead of teasing him. She even cried too. Then he curled up in bed with Daniel, hugging him like a child holds a teddy bear.

"I miss Dad," Daniel whispered.

Sean didn't even realize Daniel was awake. "I do too, _enano_. But we'll be okay. As long as we are together."

And saying it didn't feel like one of those lies you tell a little kid to keep them from being scared, but a fact, a knowable truth in a chaotic universe.

Dad's funeral was a mess, with television cameras and protestors. And afterwards, Claire and Stephen took Sean and Daniel back with them to live in Beaver Creek. Sean _begged_ them to let him stay. He technically owned the house. He could stay there on his own. Or with Lyla or Ellery. But Claire and Stephen told him he was just a kid. And, besides, Sean realized he couldn't leave Daniel.

At least the police did not press charges against him. They _wanted_ to. But with the protests, it wasn't worth prosecuting the son of the unarmed man they had murdered. That didn't mean that Sean escaped _all_ of the bullshit, though. A right-wing asshole named Bill Waltz with a shitshow podcast and a YouTube channel took the death of Kindred Matthews as his personal crusade.

"Why isn't this thug, this Sean Diaz, behind bars?" became Waltz's mantra, one that echoed thousands of times across Facebook and Twitter. Sean had to delete all of his social media accounts, cutting him off from his Seattle friends and from sharing his art, because assholes flooded his wall with death threats. More than one morning, Sean woke up to Stephen cleaning racial slurs off their driveway. At one point, President Trump even shared a tweet about "Cop-murdering, MS-13 poster-child Sean Diaz", and that led to maybe the shittiest weeks in Sean Diaz's already shitty year.

In Beaver Creek, Daniel was fine. He _immediately_ became best friends for life with their neighbor Chris, but Sean missed Lyla and Ellery and everyone back home. And the mostly white kids at Beaver Creek High School were _not_ cool with the brown-skinned kid who their shitty parents whispered had killed a cop. Sean butted heads with Claire a lot. She was stricter than Dad, treated him like he was six instead of sixteen. Dad basically trusted him to manage things on his own, and Claire _didn't_, and things came to a head when she found his weed. Admittedly, he was in a bad place and smoking more than he should, but Claire overreacted and Sean told her she could go fuck herself.

He had inherited his father's car, and he drove it through the night straight back to Seattle.

For a week, he crashed at Lyla's. And he didn't come back until Daniel called and said, "I _need_ you here, Sean. Please come home."

"That isn't our home," Sean said. He was standing across the street from their old house on Lewis Avenue, which they had sold. A new family, one with two small girls, was moving in.

"It doesn't matter where we are," Daniel said. "But you said we had to be together."

So Sean went back, prepared for Claire to murder him. But instead, she hugged him tightly and said that she was sorry, wanted him to be okay, and didn't want him to scare them like that by running away again. And he said he wouldn't.

That was near the end of his junior year, and his week in Seattle, on top of everything else, had dropped his grades to _F_'s. He managed to pass his classes, but his GPA never recovered. He was no longer the honors student in AP English classes. And without a track team at Beaver Creek High School, he wasn't a star runner either.

He wasn't _Sean Diaz_ anymore.

And a lot of the time, he felt like he was nothing except Daniel's brother.

Daniel's powers . . . never surprised Sean. He thought that was strange. Like, it was weird his brother could float things with his mind and scary when they exploded that truck in the junkyard, but Sean always had a sense that he _knew_ what to do, that he could handle them. He and Daniel would go out to the woods and practice, and Daniel beamed when Sean would tell him good job. They tried to keep the powers a secret. But then Chris found out. And then Stephen. And then Claire. Claire was weirdly cool, though she prayed about it _a lot_.

And though he knew what to do with Daniel's powers, they were still a responsibility. Something to manage. Something Sean worried about.

The only thing that seemed to bring Sean peace was working on the car.

Sean and Daniel inherited _all_ of Dad's things. The house, which they sold. The garage, which they sold to a douche named Bob back in Seattle. But also Dad's car. Since that meant Sean had his own wheels, he didn't need the car Dad was fixing up for graduation.

So Sean fixed it up for Daniel.

Sean's mechanic skills were rudimentary, despite Dad's best efforts. But through YouTube videos and car forums, he slowly figured out his way around the engine. Daniel would come out and help. Often, Daniel used his powers to hand Sean tools. Other times, he asked questions. Sometimes he was just company. And though Daniel often slowed him down, Sean realized why his father was always so happy talking in the garage. Putting something together with your own hands, sharing that with someone else, that felt like a true act of love. Seeing himself covered in grease to his elbows always made Sean feel closer to their father, and these were his favorite moments with his brother.

But overall, the two years in Beaver Creek were hard. Sean had a hole, and happiness leaked out of him.

The small town. The racism. His grandparents' rules. Only being "Daniel's brother." All of that was suffocating like blankets snuffing out the already dimming light inside him.

So after graduation, he took off.

He said it was a road trip. That he wanted to see America.

"Can I come with you?" Daniel asked. "It's summer break. It's not like I have school."

"No, bro," Sean said. "Besides, I'll only be gone a couple of weeks. I'll be back before you notice I'm even gone."

That was the first lie he had told Daniel since their father died.

Sean didn't _know_ where he was going, but he brought his passport and the house key that was among Dad's belongings, so he wasn't surprised that he drove straight to Puerto Lobos.

There, Sean found the house his _abuelos_ left to Dad, which Dad left to him and Daniel. It was on the beach, two-stories, wind-beaten. Paint flaked off the side and danced in the ocean breeze like snowflakes. Rocks had smashed two of the windows, and shingles from the roof lay shattered by the front door. Inside, two inches of dust covered everything, and empty bottles, sleeping bags, and even a used condom suggested the house hadn't been completely empty in the decades since Dad left it.

Without knowing why, Sean started to clean the house up. It felt like something he should do. That first night, Sean laid out the sleeping bag he had brought and slept on the floor of his father's childhood bedroom, and he wondered what Dad had been like at seventeen.

Using his cellphone internationally would have been expensive, and Sean was already struggling to pay his own phone plan, but he found a local shop with public wifi. It was shitty but enough to send Daniel a message that said: _I'm okay will be home soon_.

That was his second lie.

Because one week in Puerto Lobos turned into two.

Which turned into a month.

Which turned into the whole summer.

And he was not good about turning on his phone.

He was finally free from all of the bullshit. No training his brother in his powers. No conservative assholes calling him a criminal. Hell, for the first time in his life, he was somewhere where _most_ of the people looked like him. Most days he cleaned up the house, but some days he sat on the beach, smoked a joint, and felt _free_. Like he could be Sean Diaz.

Whoever Sean Diaz was.

One cop's bullet had ruined _everything_. He lost Dad. He lost his friends. Lost everything that was cool about Seattle like music and skate parks. No track meant no track scholarship. He had always wanted to go to art school, but those were expensive, and even with the money from Dad's house and garage, the first thing that came up if you Googled "Sean Diaz" were a hundred memes from the dregs of Reddit calling him a gang member and a cop killer. No _good_ school was going to take him.

So what was his life?

What was his future?

In Puerto Lobos, it didn't matter that he didn't have answers.

He got a job with a small store, stocking shelves and helping the few tourists who didn't speak Spanish. And he met a man named Eduardo, who had been best friends with Esteban Diaz.

They hung out a lot, and Eduardo had stories about Dad that Sean had never heard before. Stories that made Dad seem less perfect. Stories where Dad fucked up. Stories where Dad was a _person_, which made Sean feel closer to him. "It means a lot to me to know Esteban left here and had a good life, even if it ended too soon," Eduardo said. "I see a lot of him in you, Sean. I think he would be proud of you."

Sean wasn't _sure_ that was true, but he hoped it was.

Then one night after his eighteenth birthday, Sean was sitting on the beach, drinking his first legally-purchased case of beer and wishing he could have shared it with his dad. The house was as fixed as he was going to get it without tools and real money, and he was drawing a sunset which painted the ocean fire-orange and red. He heard someone swearing, and when he walked around the house, the neighbor stood in the street, shaking her head at the open hood of her car.

"Do you need help_, señora?_" Sean asked in Spanish.

And the woman blinked. "Esteban?"

"No, sorry," Sean said, staring at the sand stuck between his toes.

"My apologies," the woman said. "You look just like the boy who used to live here." She said she needed help, but it was only a hose that had become disconnected. Sean fixed it in about ten minutes, and the woman thanked him over and over and over, though he assured her it wasn't a big deal.

"I don't know if you knew them, but the family who used to live here were very helpful too," she said, setting a hand on his shoulder. "Everyone in town admired them and misses them very much."

After she left, Sean went back to the beach, picked up his sketchbook from the sand, and the lighter his father had given him fell out of his pocket. And when he picked it up, he suddenly _knew_ what he wanted to do. With his life. It came to him suddenly and completely, and the next morning he locked up the house and drove back to the United States.

When Sean pulled up to Claire and Stephen's house in Beaver Creek, in the driveway, Daniel was using his powers to help Chris get air off a ramp on a Razor scooter.

_Great job keeping the powers a secret,_ Sean thought. When he got out of the car, Daniel suddenly dropped the scooter and his best friend to the pavement. Chris rubbed his bruised ass but didn't say anything.

"Are you really here?" Daniel said quietly.

"Yeah, _enano_, I am," Sean said.

"Then go fuck yourself," Daniel said, and Chris's eyes grew _wide_ because at this point Daniel didn't swear.

Daniel didn't talk to Sean. Not that afternoon. Not during dinner with Claire and Stephen. Finally, Sean knocked on Daniel's bedroom door and asked to sit next to him on the bed. "You disappeared," Daniel said after Sean broke him down. "You could have been dead. Like Dad. Or worse, I thought you had left me forever."

"Why would I leave you forever?" Sean asked.

"Because I cause you trouble and I make your life harder," Daniel said so quietly that it broke Sean's heart, made him feel like the world's biggest piece of shit.

"I am so sorry I did that, _enano_," he said. "But I needed to figure things out."

After some crying and swearing, Daniel said, "I know things haven't been good for you since Dad died. But please, Sean, you can't disappear. You said we could make it through things, but we had to be together."

"I promise I will never leave you like that again," Sean said, and finally his brother hugged him. And though Sean had cherished his three months of freedom, holding his little brother felt like finding the piece of his heart he hadn't realized he was missing.

It felt like maybe, one day, he could plug that hole inside him.

"So, I figured out what I want to do," Sean said. "And if I work really hard, I can do it on my own. But it would be better if I could do it with you."

"What's that?" Daniel asked, intrigued.

"I want to move back to Seattle, and I want to buy back Dad's garage." He watched his twelve-year-old brother's eyes light up. "I don't want to set your life for you, so when you get to be eighteen, you can obviously back out. And even if we can make this happen then, I think you should still go to school. But if I save up, and we use the money left from the house and when we sold the shop in the first place, I think we can do it."

"So we would run the garage?" Daniel said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Together?"

"Yeah, _enano_. It would be like when we fixed-up the car. Only always."

"'_Siempre y siempre_,'" Daniel said quietly. "That's what Dad would say when he said he loved me in Spanish."

"I know, _enano_," Sean said, putting an arm around his brother. "He would always tell me that too."

And so Sean moved to Seattle.

And he got a job at Bob's Garage, which used to be the Diaz Repair Shop. A couple of the guys who used to work for Dad still worked there, and one of them, Juan, told him, "This place used to be a lot better under your father."

And at night, Sean took classes from a community college that didn't care about the Google searches that turned up with his name. And he waited. And saved his money. And got an associate's degree in business management.

And then one day a couple of months before Sean's twenty-sixth birthday, Bob stomped into the garage, flustered. He couldn't handle the customers. The scheduling. The mechanics who weren't loyal to him because he wasn't a good boss. He wanted out.

And so Sean called his brother, made sure Daniel was still in. And with Daniel chipping in twenty-five percent from his savings, Sean was able to buy his dad's garage.

And that is why this week Sean has landed in is a _big_ week. Next weekend, Daniel moves into the apartment and transfers to a local community college in Seattle, to be a part-time student and part-time business owner. And next weekend is the grand reopening of the Diaz Repair Shop, only with a cooler logo and a _slightly_ different name:

The Diaz _Brothers_ Repair Shop.

# # #

Sean is still adjusting to the rhythms of this new life when it is time for the Diaz Brothers Repair Shop's grand opening—which is an odd term because the garage is actually _closed_ for a cookout with Sean and Daniel's now-employees, friends, and family. There's punch and cake, and Juan brings a grill. He insists Sean take a hand at cooking burgers, which Sean is _not_ good at, and thankfully Juan takes back over. "It's okay, boss," he says. "One day your cookouts will be as legendary as your father's."

Definitely going to take some time getting used to being people's boss.

Sean wonders: _Am I ready for this type of responsibility?_ But then again, he raised a super-powered nine-year-old while homeless and running from the police, so operating a garage probably isn't _harder_ than that.

When the food is ready, Sean feels Daniel's bony elbow hit him in the ribs. "Everyone is waiting on you to make a speech so we can eat."

"No way," Sean says. "I suck at speeches. Besides, you're the one who likes attention. Why don't you give a speech?"

"Hey everyone!" Daniel shouts, and his voice cuts through the chatter so everyone's eyes fall onto them like spotlights singling out a soloist. "Sean has some words he wants to say!"

Sean's fingers sting as he punches Daniel in the shoulder, and Daniel laughs, and everyone is _looking_, so Sean has to say _something_.

"So, I'm not good at speeches," Sean says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Daniel boos, which draws a laugh.

Behind the freshly-painted words _Diaz Brothers Repair Shop_ on the top of the building, some of the letters for _Bob's Garage_ still show where the blue paint around them faded in the sun, a sign that some scars do not go away. When Sean was a kid, he _hated_ Dad for making him give up weekends and school holidays to work here. Most of his duties included watching Daniel or handing customers their keys, but he would doodle on a notepad and imagine life _anywhere_ else, and he swore he would never end up back here.

But in his short life, Sean has been a fugitive. He's faced down guns and worked on a weed farm. He's walked across a desert and lost an eye. He's torn down a wall. And been to prison. He's gone to art school and lived in Los Angeles. He's had some great days but mostly some really terrible ones. And even though Dad might say, "You're a Diaz. You were born to roam," at some point, you can have your fill of adventure.

He is tired of running. He is ready to try being home.

In front of Sean stand his and Daniel's five employees with their spouses and a couple of kids.

Beaming at him are Claire and Stephen, who took Sean and Daniel in when it was hard to do so, who did the hard work of raising Daniel when Sean couldn't.

Chris, who has grown into a gangly, awkward young-adult, scratches his arm, probably wondering if helping Daniel move into the apartment is worth the free food. This big-hearted nerd was the friend Daniel needed when it seemed like the kid's childhood was a thing of the past.

Lyla bites her lip, smirking, clearly waiting for Sean to make an ass out of himself with this speech. She's Sean's partner in crime, a freaking fighter who is with him forever as long as he is with her.

And Sean imagines Brody is here too. This week, Sean has checked Brody's blog, which updated on Thursday. So Brody is still out there, traveling the road. Being good enough to help desperate kids at their lowest points.

He imagines Cassidy, Finn, Hannah, and Jacob who taught him that there was more to life than the narrow confines of society. Sean couldn't find any obituaries about vagrants sucked under trains, so he hopes they are okay.

He pictures Mom, who he called yesterday though she was _shocked_ to hear from him. She did the hard thing of showing him that it's okay to look out for yourself. And that maybe you can still be there for people, if you give them a reason to give you a chance.

He thinks about Max, and he hopes that the lessons she has learned have helped her, the way he thinks they have helped him.

And he imagines Dad. Who died both a decade ago and also last week. Who raised him to be a good, selfless man, but, in the end, gave him permission to take care of himself too.

"After our dad died," Sean says, setting a hand on Daniel's shoulder, "there were nights when I thought life could never be good again. I know it is hard to care about me and Daniel, but all of you do. And we could not have done _any_ of this alone. I'm sorry we were difficult to love, but thank you for doing it anyway. For being bright spots in a lot of darkness. You will probably never understand how much it means that you showed me that there _can_ be good days again. So thank you. For everything. Always and always and always."

# # #

At sunset, Sean sits in a camping chair on the tiny, concrete balcony of his apartment that overlooks the Z-Mart. A bucket of beer sits beside him, and he takes a slow sip of one of them. In the morning, Daniel is heading to Beaver Creek to take Chris home and to get the last of his stuff, but right now, the "Spirit Squad" is setting up the PlayBox. Sean getting his memories back, learning he's a mechanic, being people's _boss_—it's all exhausting, and he is thankful for this bit of quiet.

Sean opens his phone and scrolls to Toby's Instagram. About two months ago, Toby posted of picture of himself in a suit with another man in a suit, on a beach, both of them wearing wedding rings. In the photo, Toby grins ear-to-ear, and this hurts, but seeing Toby _that_ happy makes Sean more happy than not.

Like Cassidy before, it's weird to miss someone who you are a stranger to.

_Shit, did I do the right thing this time?_ Sean wonders. _Is there going to be another storm?_

At least for right now, there are only clear skies over Seattle.

The glass door behind Sean slides open, and Daniel throws himself into the other camping chair. "We have _got_ to get a bigger TV or Chris is going to own my ass at _Overwatch_."

"Is he okay sleeping on our couch tonight?" Sean asks. "I can get him more blankets or something."

"Do you know how many nights he and I slept in his tree house? The couch is _not_ worse than sleeping on splinters and nails." Daniel holds his hand over the bucket of beer. One of the bottles rises into his palm, and with a flick of his wrist, the cap pops off without a bottle opener. "Chris started watching this week's episode of his Twitch show about Dungeons and Dragons. It's kind of cool, but also like a million-hours long, so we have some bro time."

Sean holds out his bottle to Daniel. "I'm good with some bro time."

"With me moving in, it can be 'bro-time' all the time," Daniel says and his bottle clinks against Sean's.

Daniel's scrawny arms stick out of his tanktop like toothpicks poking out of a hotdog. The shirt barely covers a tattoo on his chest that says _Dad_. And he has a really bad goatee. But overall, Daniel looks good—for a total dork. And he seems happy.

Even if things fall apart—which, in life, always eventually happens—right now, everything Sean has been through is worth it.

"So I have to tell you something," Daniel says, picking at the label of his beer. "I went into your room."

"Nineteen-years-old and _still_ can't respect my privacy," Sean laughs.

"I was looking for deodorant! But I saw the sketchbook on the bed, the drawings for something called _Superwolf_. They looked really good."

"Thanks," Sean says, sipping his beer. "I'm thinking about publishing an online comic."

"Dude, Sean, that would be so cool!" And Daniel's eyes light up like they did when he was little on Christmas. "It made me sad when you stopped drawing so much. So I'm glad you're doing it again. I always thought you would be an awesome artist."

"Maybe in another life," Sean says quietly. "There's kind of a lot of things I wish were different. And I guess having an art career wasn't meant to be. But I think that's okay. Sometimes you have to look at what you _do_ have and realize, hey, this is good. This is enough. You can deserve good things but not have them be the things you wanted, and it's maybe brave to be 'just some kid from Seattle.'" In that first life, Sean made a promise to Daniel when Daniel found out their Dad had died. And in this one, it was one of the lessons Sean passed on to himself—to always be honest with Daniel and to never lie to him. So Sean opens his phone to his text messages. "I have something I need to tell you, too, _enano_."

Daniel takes the phone and squints at the screen. "'It was good talking to you, and I hope we can do it again,'" Daniel reads. "The contact says it's from 'Mom.' What kind of freaky girl—or guy—did you meet that makes you call them 'Mom'?"

"Gross, dude," Sean says, taking his phone back. "That's our actual mother. Like, the woman who gave birth to us."

Daniel blinks. Then stands up. And there's not much room on the balcony, but he paces back and forth, pressing his knuckles against his temples, and then he almost trips on the camping chair before he sits back down again. "You talked to Karen? _The _Karen Diaz?"

"Karen Reynolds, actually."

"You _hate_ her. The last time you even mentioned her was after she sent that 'bullshit letter' after Dad's funeral. Being pissed at Karen is, like, the _only_ thing you and Grandma Claire ever agreed on. You _have_ to tell me how the hell this happened."

"It's kind of a long and shitty story," Sean says. "But I promise I will tell you all of it. But not right now. If that's okay."

And Daniel pesters him for a bit, makes an exaggerated show of begging before finally saying it's cool, they have plenty of bro times ahead.

"You know what the best part of today was, Sean?" Daniel says. "It was seeing you happy. I don't think I've seen you happy since Dad died."

And Sean draws in a long breath, one that stretches across multiple lifetimes and all the way back to October 28, 2016. "For the longest time, I didn't think I could be. And then I realized that me being miserable didn't help anyone. That I deserved some happiness."

"You do," Daniel says. "You deserve _all_ of the happiness. You're, like, the world's second-best brother."

"Only _second_-best?"

"Well, obviously I'm _the_ best."

The sun has almost sunk over the horizon, and a cool night has drifted over Seattle when they finish their beers. Daniel uses his powers to open another one for each of them. He raises the bottle to his lips, but before he drinks, he says, "Do you think Dad would be proud of us?"

"I _know_ he would be, _enano_," Sean says. "Of both of us."

"I still miss him. I remember he used to tell me stories to make me feel better. I liked how, in his stories, no matter how bad things got—"

"—in the end, everything always worked out okay," Sean finishes. He takes a long swig of his beer, and the alcohol warms his chest and tingles his arms. His brother is only shadows in the dim light floating up from the street lamps below. It would be great if this moment could freeze and stretch on forever. But life isn't like that. And you only have so much time. And sometimes you have to plow through the bad parts to get to the good. "So I have a story that is like one of Dad's. It'll answer how I got back in touch with Mom. And probably raise a lot of other questions. It's kind of long. And a lot of it is sad. But if you stick with it . . . things turn out okay in the end."

Sean takes a breath. And he begins:

"Once upon a time, in a wild, wild world . . ."

**Soundtrack – Outro: "Be More Kind"**

**by Frank Turner**

**This has been "The Bravest Wolf in the World"**

**A **_**Life is Strange 2 **_**Fan Fiction**

**Episode Four: The Storm**

_**Siempre y Siempre y Siempre**_** Ending**

* * *

_the wind blew both of us to sand and sea_

_and where the dry land stands is hard to say_

_as the current drags us by the shore_

_we can no longer say for sure _

_who's drowning or if they can be saved_

_and when you're out there floundering_

_like a lighthouse i will shine_

_be more kind, my friends, try to be more kind_

_like a beacon reaching out_

_to you and yours from me and mine_

_be more kind, my friends, try to be more kind_

_in a world that has decided _

_that it's going to lose its mind_

_be more kind, my friends, try to be more kind_


End file.
